


Songs of North America

by Skeptikitten



Series: The North America Chronicles [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adventure, Historical, M/M, Origin Myths, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeptikitten/pseuds/Skeptikitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of related shorts about the lives and loves of the North America twins, Canada and America.  Inspired by music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Track One: "Canada's Really Big", by the Arrogant Worms

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter will be the only actual one with song lyrics within the fiction.

"Hey, Russia?"

Distracted humming and vodka scent filled his senses, the voice sounding to his blocked ears as if coming through cotton wool.

"Oi, Russia. OI!"

The slightly nasal, baritone drawl was growing more irritated by the moment. Vaguely he could hear the rest of the G8 bickering in the background, but it was America who caught his attention. As usual.

"HEY COMMIE BASTARD!"

"Da?" Russia's voice sounded as pleasant and clueless as it ever did, but the underlying menace was recognizable to those who knew him best. And, he thought wryly, a touch of amusement had crept in as well. As he suspected, Ivan was ignoring Alfred on purpose to rile his old rival. "Was there something, Amerika?"

Black spots danced in front of his vision as America fumed and ranted at the icy nation for daring to ignore the Hero of the World. He really did need to get some oxygen soon. He couldn't exactly die from suffocation, but it certainly wouldn't be pleasant. He flailed his one free hand, hoping America would shake off his righteous indignation and notice.

"You're sitting on my brother again, dude."

"Oh?" Russia sounded confused. Hoser. "Your brother, Amerika?"

"Canada, you dick!" America snapped. "For the love of McDonald's, Ivan, your countries are only like a couple miles apart!"

"Ah, little Canada. I was not being aware he was here, comrade."

"Well he _is_ and he's underneath your drunken _ass_ so move!"

The weight bearing him down into the hard wooden chair lifted, and Matthew Williams took a huge, heaving breath. Coughing slightly, he picked up Kumasama from the floor and nodded to his twin.

"Thanks, Al," he said, wincing at how scratchy and weak his voice sounded; how weak it always sounded. America just waved a hand.

"No problem, bro."

"It's just…you're not usually so," Canada replied hesitantly. "You know, vehement about it. Half the time you forget I'm here too." He tangled his fingers together in front of Kuma-bunbun, staring at the floor. He could hear Russia now pestering China, with Japan vainly attempting to mediate. England and France had started a fist-fight in the corner, predictably about Arthur's crappy food and Francis' perversions, while Italy nagged Germany to ditch the meeting with him to go grab some pasta. The squabbling was so routine by now that Canada could just tune it all out; it seemed he had heard every conversation a hundred times before while he sat unnoticed in the corner. America always noticed him, of course, but tended to ignore his soft-spoken brother in favor of trying to run the world at large. America's sudden annoyed defense of him was a departure from the usual, an anomaly he couldn't quite figure out. The taller man flopped into his chair with a massive breath, running his hands over his hair as though he could actually smooth down Nantucket.

"I dunno, Mattie, I guess I've just been thinking. You know, my economy is in the tank, the political system is in complete fucking chaos, and my people are quite frankly becoming bigger jerks than usual," Alfred began slowly. "I mean, I love them but it's like they're not happy unless they have someone to hate, someone to exclude or discriminate against, and it's only getting worse. And I thought- well, they're a part of me, right? So maybe it's my…you know…"

"Fault?" Canada replied with a grin. He'd never seen anyone so unable to admit when they were wrong as his brother. America could barely _say_ the word, much less apply it to himself.

"Yeah."

His voice was so sincere that Canada actually made eye contact for once. Alfred had his hands on his knees now, cheeks pink as he stared very hard at the carpet.

"And I thought that maybe if I tried harder to pay attention to other people, to what they said and thought for a while, it would be a start on making everything better. Of all the people I don't pay enough attention to, Mattie, you're the most important."

"Alfie…"

"Once I thought about that, I realized how much it ticks me off that the others don't notice you. I mean, sometimes I ignore you but at least I can fucking SEE you. And England and France raised us, for God's sakes. How they forget about you I just don't understand."

"It's okay, Alfie." Canada leaned forwards and put his hand overtop one of his brother's, clasping his fingers tight. "It's enough that you do."

"No it isn't." Alfred's hand gave his a quick squeeze. "I'm going to change that, Matt. I've got a plan."

"Oh dear maple, America," Canada groaned. "Not another one of your cockamamie schemes."

America laughed, heading over to where England and France were dangerously close to knocking the coffee tray out the window. "It's gonna be epic, bro. Magnificent, even!"

Canada sighed heavily. America's idea of "epic" usually involved a great deal of booze and humiliation.

.

The first half of his statement proved to be incredibly prophetic. America had adjourned the meeting for the night shortly after their talk, suggesting they "relocate to a more congenial establishment for some team building" (a statement delivered in his best mimic of England's accent). Surprisingly all the members of the G8 had agreed, and here they all were- ensconced in a British-style pub in Manhattan and drowning their enmity in admittedly tasty lager. America had become more and more animated with each pint, laughing at England's attempts to match him drink for drink and keeping one arm firmly around Canada's neck to keep him from escaping into the background. China was already deep into his cups, snuggling an incredibly unwilling Japan and wailing about how "uncute and ungrateful" his little brother had become. England appeared to be switching between maudlin sniffles about how America hated him and commiserating with China about miserably bratty younger siblings. France and Italy were splitting their fifth bottle of red wine, alternating between Pinot Noir and Barbera d'Asti to "keep it fair, ve". Germany and Russia appeared to be trying to goad America into a drinking contest. Canada sighed- that did not bode well. He and America had a higher alcohol tolerance than any of the other nations in the world, and Germany and Russia were incredibly grouchy when they lost at what they viewed as a national pastime. The last time they team-drank the two under the table was right before the Cold War began. In fact, Canada had his suspicions that Ivan losing a _vodka_ drinking contest to Alfred was what really sparked off that conflict.

"Nah, let's start tonight off with drinking songs, instead! It'll be awesome, man!" Alfred enthused, dragging Germany's arm and shoving him towards the front of the bar. "Come on, dude, I know you Germans have tons of boss drinking songs."

Germany actually blushed, something Canada had only seen him do in the face of Italy's unadulterated brand of affection. "Ja, we do. But I don't think…"

"Dear Gods, don't _think_. Drink and sing! Drink and sing! Drink and sing!"

Alfred shoved another mug into Ludwig's hand, and made shooing motions. "G'wan."

Surprisingly, Germany did. His booming voice was actually rather boisterous as he led the bar in a few rousing choruses of a familiar favorite, then launched into another when he was met with applause and cheers. Alfred beamed at Matthew, his eyes sparkling merrily behind Texas' lenses, and squeezed him a little with the arm around his shoulders.

"My ridiculously circuitous plan is one third complete, bro," he muttered in his ear. Canada grinned again, caught up in America's infectious gaiety.

"I can't believe you know the definition of the word circuitous."

"I'm hurt, Mattie, I really am."

"Liar."

America stuck his tongue out childishly, but nearly bit it off when he was wrapped in a bone-crushing hug from behind.

"Ammmmeericaaaaa," England breathed drunkenly. "You're ignoooooorrrringggg me again. Why do you do that? You used to be sooooooo cute, and now you're an ungrateful, Independence-declaring brat who hates me!"

"England, this is why you shouldn't try to drink with Alfred," Matt said, rolling his eyes. "You're going to regret saying this crap in front of an audience tomorrow."

"Shut up, Canada! You're a brat too." Matt rolled his eyes a second time. For some reason, England could always see him when he was plastered; maybe it was because he looked so much like America. "You're getting too much like your brother."

"Lay off Mattie, Arthur. And for God's sake, when are you going to let the Revolution go, man?" America wheezed a little as England's arms tightened further. "It was over two centuries ago." A tiny bit of a whine entered his brother's voice then. "Can't you just see me as an equal, after everything I've accomplished? Will I always just be some rebellious kid to you?"

Canada frowned slightly, his heart sinking. He had known of course that his twin had far more complicated reasons for the Revolution than just his freedom, just as he had always known England was depressed over more than just the loss of a resource and little brother. The thing was, neither of them seemed to notice it in the other, and also seemed to have an unspoken agreement to keep needling each other over the obvious while ignoring their true emotions. England blinked slightly at the saddened tone of the young superpower's statement, his arms sliding away from his waist to hang limply at his own sides.

"Alfred…"

America shook his head vigorously. "I'm not talking about this now, Arthur. Maybe not ever. Besides, Mattie and I have something to do."

"We do?"

"Damn straight." Alfred grabbed his wrist and marched them both to the front of the bar where Ludwig had just finished his most recent sing-a-long. He jumped up onto the bar and addressed the rest of the G8 with his usual verve, all notes of the angst before expertly buried beneath his "look at me, I'm just a harmless narcissist" mask.

"It's the Hero's turn now! But tonight, I'm not singing about America or heroes!"

"Tell us another one," China snorted. Japan hid a drunken giggle behind his hand.

"You suck, Kiku. You're supposed to be my best friend. Anyway, tonight I'm singing a song with my brother- his new national anthem!"

"Mathieu has a new national anthem?" France inquired. "Since when?"

"Since now! It's not an official anthem, but it totally says everything about Canada in a single go, and is way cooler than the lame song he's got now!"

"Oh, no, Alfred, not-"

"Yes!"

To Matt's utter chagrin, Alfred began to sing with gusto, animatedly gesturing along with the words.

_"When I look around me, I can't believe what I see. It seems as if his country has lost the will to live! The economy is lousy, he barely has an army, but he can still stand proudly 'cause Canada's really big!"_

Grinning wildly, his brother held a hand out and he took it without thinking; dragged up on top of the bar by America's ridiculous strength. Those shining blue eyes, that puppy dog look on the same face he saw in the mirror every morning- Matt (helped along by 8 or 9 pints) caved, joining his twin on the next verse.

_"We're the second largest country on this planet Earth, and if Russia" Alfred threw a saucy wink to Ivan, who saluted with his vodka "keeps on shrinking, then soon we will be first!"_

_"As long as I keep Quebec…The USA has tanks,"_ an ironic bow from Alfred _"and Switzerland has banks. They can keep them thanks, they just don't amount. Cause when you get down to it, you'll find out what the truth is- it isn't what you do with it, it's the size that counts!"_

The entire bar was clapping along with them now, Italy and France cat-calling at the last, suggestive lyrics. Canada felt himself beaming right along with America, belting out the absurd tune at the top of his lungs.

_"Most people will tell you that France is pretty large"_ Matt threw the wink to Francis this time _"but you could put 14 Frances into this land of ours!"_

_"But it'd take a lot of work…."_

_"It'd take a whole lot of work. We're larger than Malaysia, almost as big as Asia, we're larger than Australia and it's a continent! So big we seldom bother to go see one another, though we often go to other countries for vacation."_

Matt was really getting into the song now, acting out the words as crazily as Alfred, because everyone was actually seeing him. The North America twins took a huge exaggerated breath and launched into the final verse together, Matt throwing his arm around Alfred's shoulders.

_"Our mountains are very pointy, our prairies are not. The rest is kinda bumpy, but man have we got a lot! We've got a lot of land. We've got a whole lot of land…So stand up and be proud and sing out very loud. We stand out from the crowd 'cause Canadaaaaa's really big!"_

.

Matt stumbled tipsily through the door to Alfred's house, barely remembering to hold it for his twin. America followed soon after, muttering a sulfurous curse under his breath as he weaved into the hall carrying a barely-conscious England on his back.

"I swear, Mattie, this guy…"

He snickered in response, too giddy over his night to make too much fun of his wayward 'big brother' mumbling nonsense into America's neck. He had thought it was so stupid at first- Alfred dragging him up to sing some idiot song in front of a bar full of people- but it had worked. The whole night, the others not only saw him but spoke to him. Directly. Without talking to Alfred first. Of course, Ivan and Ludwig had demanded a rematch drinking contest later, which Arthur had been ridiculous enough to try and join. The Brit had been passing in and out of awareness since somewhere after his ninth pint, Ivan dropped out at fourteen to follow China back to his hotel(claiming beer was the wrong alcohol for a real drinking contest anyway), and Ludwig had voluntarily left the game to molest Feliciano at sixteen. Matthew and Alfred had joyously and loudly proclaimed victory, downing two more pints just for emphasis while Francis and Kiku retreated to their hotels as well. It was about that time that they both noticed Arthur beginning to snore at one of the tables, and Alfred hoisted him onto his back for the short walk to his New York apartment.

Now the elder twin was attempting to maneuver Arthur into the spare bedroom without falling over himself, tucking his unexpected guest under the blankets with more tenderness than Matt expected. Alfred brushed his fingers gently though Arthur's bangs to trace one bushy eyebrow, snatching his hand back guiltily when England murmured his name. He started again when he saw Canada leaning against the doorframe.

"Heya, Mattie. Didn't see you there. I swear that wasn't as weird as it looked like."

Canada snorted at his brother's uncharacteristic awkwardness, noticing that behind him on the bed England had cracked open one bright green eye to stare morosely at Alfred's broad back. Time to meddle.

"So when are you going to tell him you've been in love with him for like three hundred years?"

Ha! That one eye widened almost comically as Alfred sputtered.

"How about half past _never_? And quit it with the creepy twin psychic bit, okay? England will never see me as anything but that obnoxious kid that left him. He doesn't see _me_ , Mattie. You talk about being invisible?" Alfred laughed bitterly, running his hands through his already unruly hair. "I'm so _un_ invisible that they don't bother to try and see past that loud hero routine. I mean, so a lot of the time that's me, sure. But I get sad and frustrated and scared like everyone else."

"Anyone who's seen you after a horror film or ghost story knows you get scared, stupid."

Alfred stuck out his tongue again. "Shut it, you. But honestly, Matt? You know the reason they see me and not you is because I _make_ them. I make it so they can't possibly ignore me, because that's what I had to do to put my country where it is. Face it- we're both too young and they have too much history with each other for us to get anywhere any other way. I won't be one of those weak nations who drifts through history like Feliks does, and you can't be either. We're made for better stuff, you and me, bro. _Bigger_ stuff."

"Al, I'm not like you…"

"Horseshit. You just need to be around them who you are around me. Still polite and a bit accommodating, yeah; but with moments of pure, epic magnificence. You burned my capitol down once, dude. Where's that fire gone now? Where are those brass-plated balls we inherited from the old pirate here?"

Matt smiled then, watching England curl tighter into the blanket with tears starting to form in his eyes. "Maybe I can get them back. With your help, of course."

"Of course!" America punctuated that statement with his right fist smacked in his open left palm. "That's what the hero does, little brother!"

"Hoser."

"Retard."

"So, about telling him…"

"Get off it, Matt." Alfred reached behind himself without looking to trail long fingers through England's hair, the elder man's eyes almost like saucers now. "Iggy has better things to do than listen to love confessions from 'bratty, ungrateful kids'. I swore when I declared independence that I was doing it so I could protect his grumpy ass for once, and I won't break that promise now." A wistful smile. "Even if it means protecting him from dealing with my own idiocy. Even if he hates me for it."

"I don't think he hates you Alfie. Not at all." Matt spoke straight to his former guardian, now hiding his face in the pillow to conceal his crying. Fortunately, Alfred was too drunk to notice the object of his unwitting declaration was actually awake. It would certainly be interesting to watch this unfold from the sidelines. The tsundere match of the century, really, and ample payback for all the crap America _had_ put him through over the years. One pub-sing and a few warm fuzzies weren't going to compensate for years of being an obstreperous wanker- that much he _did_ pick up from the former pirate.

America rose from his perch on the bed and dragged Canada across the hall to his own bedroom, stripping off quickly and pushing him to do the same while dropping their glasses on the nightstand. The two curled around each other in bed as they had often done when they were small (and sometimes for comfort in World War II, even if Al would never admit it), legs tangled and chests pressed together so each could feel his twin's heartbeat. Alfred muttered sleepily into Matthew's hair.

"Sorry Iggy shoved you out of the spare room."

"It's okay. I'd rather be here." Silence for a few moments, then... "Thanks, Al. It was epic and magnificent, just like you said. Stupid, but epic."

A chuckle that he felt rather than heard, the vibrations traveling effortlessly from his brother's body to his own. "Course it was. That's what the North America brothers are- epic and magnificent and maybe a little stupid. And really, really big."

Alfred drew back slightly, pressing his forehead to Matt's and rubbing their noses together. "But I can deal with that. How 'bout you?"

"Yeah." Matt leaned in to press his lips gently to his twin's. "I can deal with that."


	2. Track Two: "Dancing With Myself", by Billy Idol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canada reflects on his place in the world and those he loves most. Set a few months before Track One.

.

I wasn't always invisible.

When we were first born, my brother and I were inseparable; two halves of a single united whole. We were North America, the embodiment of the spirit and power of a vast, untamed land. Our dreams, our thoughts, our songs, and our dances were one and the same. We had no names then, nor did we need them. We simply were, and we were happy. Then _they_ came, just as our Great Mother had warned in our spirit-visions, and we were no longer one but two- divided. I went North with France, my twin to the South with England, and our paths diverged.

_He_ became the dawn. He was brilliant and strong like the summer's light, his eyes the fathomless, open skies of our lands. He bestowed the radiance of his warm smile upon all he saw, and raised his voice in pealing laughter to chase away the long darkness of night. He still danced, my other half, in the dazzling illumination of day, and the world stood up and took notice. America is the sun.

I became the twilight. My glow was soft and muted like a winter's eve, and my eyes held all the shadows of impending night. My smiles were guarded, enigmatic, and given to few; my voice was the whisper of a snow-blanketed dusk. I was bereft without the bright influence of my twin; I danced alone in the dark, and the world forgot me. Canada is the moon, but a moon eclipsed by the sun.

It is not his fault, my resplendent America, for he did not mean to do so. His dominance is as unconscious as breathing. And yet, my half-heart still knows bitterness and envy towards its missing piece. It is the same the world over, from Tokyo to London- Alfred has many a partner, and Matthew dances with himself. I must admit I do not feel jealous over the number of names on his dance card, for he has many that mean nothing to him and even more that wish him harm. Still I cannot help but wonder which is worse, aching feet trod on by those who seek to weave the intricate steps of your destruction or an aching heart trod on by the empty eyes that simply pass you by and render you unworthy of such chaos? How much the worse when those eyes are those of your mirror's reflection?

For you leave me aching too, Alfred. Your world has expanded so greatly that I am left on the periphery, when I used to be its center- its _only_. Oh, to you at least I am not transparent. After all, we are still (and always) connected soul to soul, and my presence is surely always in your awareness as you are in mine. But you leave me alone in a crowd so often, dear brother, that I wonder if you have not forgotten the simple joy of twirling under the stars and the rain with me?

Your life is filled with other dances now, and the tribal beats we used to whirl through seem crude in comparison. There is the fast, violent tarantella with your enemies, full of moves meant to trap and trip up your partner; the seductive glide of the tango for those you would entice to be your allies. You fling yourself through a spirited reel for your comrades, your bright enthusiasm charming them into believing you are always strong and always empty-headed; you perform the complex cotillion in world affairs, always changing partners but never staying for long. For those few you truly care for, there is the grace of the waltz- a gentle tempo reserved for those who have needed your heroism like Lithuania, or those who are cherished friends (even if you'll never admit it) like France and Japan. The others I could care less for, but the waltz makes me wistful. A world's worth of nations, and yet the only one that asks for my hand in ¾ time is my Papa- when he isn't busy seducing someone, of course. Truly though, it is your final dance that I want, Alfred; the dance that I have waited for so long.

With England, you dance the Paso Doble. Always circling one another, coming together and spinning apart almost violently only to come back together again; your dance is all fire and spirit and passion, a battle and lovemaking at the same time. Even if you have not yet reached the climax of your routine, you have always been partners. That measure, that time signature, that vibration- that is what I have waited my whole life to dance. A dance where the steps come unconsciously with my partner just as they do with you, my brother. A dance where I have nothing left to lose and nothing left to prove; where I only need be myself and my partner sees me as such.

I am immortal. I am a nation. I have met every other of my kind in this world, and there is only one I have ever known who could be that partner. One and one alone who never failed to notice my presence, one who never confused me for my brighter reflection; he is a vision in carnelian and silver. _Mais c'est impossible_. Like America, he shines- and who the hell am I?

I'm Canada; the moon who can't help but be drawn to the incinerating brilliance of the sun, the one who dances only with himself.

.

.

"Hey, Mattie! Wait up!"

Alfred's bright voice called to me from down the hall, his heavy gait echoing on the tile as he jogged to catch me up. A leather-clad arm was tossed over my shoulder, and a beaming smile full of perfect teeth aimed at me. The movie-star smile- the smile that meant trouble.

"What do you want, hoser?"

"So mean!" he pouted, sticking out his lower lip. Immature? Yep. Adorable? Yep. Work on his own brother? Not a chance in hell.

"Seriously, Al, I'm busy."

The bastard actually snorted at me. "Doing what, chillin' with the bear? Come out and sink a few drinks with me, since the stuffy old meeting is over."

"You _hosted_ that 'stuffy old meeting', you twit. And you forgot to call my name when taking votes _twice_. We talked about this, Al."

"I did that on purpose, since you poured maple syrup in my damn coffee!"

"That was Kumalama."

"Who?" came the irritating voice from my jacket. I ignored it.

Alfred, on the other hand, scrunched up his nose. "Dude, I totally don't get this weird no-name game you two have going. Seriously, Mattie- I didn't forget you. I just hate my _coffee_ tasting like _pancakes_."

I sighed. Immature brat. I can't believe he's technically the older twin. "I don't want to go to the bar with you so I can drag your fat, drunk ass home and make you breakfast in the morning."

"I'm not fat!" he protested, whining. "And I want you to drink _with_ me- we haven't done that in a while." A devilish smirk lit up his face. "Besides, Iggy and Pedo-beard are coming and that's always good for a few laughs. Plus, I got the other two Nations of Awesome to join us! It'll be epic!"

"Wait, you want me to voluntarily enter an establishment that will contain not only you, Papa and liquor but also Denmark and Prussia? And England, considering that it is only a week from your damn birthday?" I shook my head. "You're insane. And soon to be broke, with the damages bill I see on the horizon."

Alfred merely shrugged. "Meh, whatever. Takes all kinds, right?"

"No." I can't be in an enclosed space with _him_ while compromised with alcohol. What if I say something? He'll laugh and tell everyone and…well, nothing would change probably, since no one remembers who the hell I am. Or worse, I'll say something and _he'll_ forget who I am. I don't think I could take that right now. I still need time to think about this whole mess.

"But Mattie…."

Oh no. He's not going to…he is. The Pathetic Look of the Kicked Puppy. No. Absolutely not. I am not going to give in to this again. Last time, I ended up with a tattoo on my ass.

"…alright."

Damn it!

.

.

.

True to form, Arthur was on his twelfth gin and tonic and absolutely ranting to Papa about Alfred, who was conveniently hiding behind me. Gilbert and Matthias had taken over the bar's jukebox, and were apparently competing over who could pick the most obnoxious song. I rubbed my temples and sighed into my Beaver Tail.

"That is a horrid abuse of whiskey, you know," Alfred mumbled into his own drink. "Even if it is Canadian whiskey." I stuck out my tongue at him. Lightning fast, he popped into my face and licked it with his own.

"Ewwww. That's disgusting, Al."

He grinned unrepentantly at me, the hoser. "We're twins. If I've got cooties, so do you."

"That's not how it works."

"So when are you going to just grow a pair and ask him out or something?" Alfred asked, apropos of nothing. I immediately snorted a burning combination of whiskey and maple syrup up my nose. He handed me a napkin and kept going as though I didn't just spray his shirt with my drink. "At least ask him to dance."

"Who?" Kumajiro intoned from the bar-top. Perfect timing, asshole.

"Gilbo. Mattie here totally wants to invade his vital regions, he's just too chicken-shit to do it," Alfred stated matter-of-factly, as though he weren't slandering my non-existent love life to a talking polar bear with Alzheimer's.

"That's just…"

A warm finger pressed itself over my lips, halting any denials.

"Matthew Williams, we are _twins_. I may have a short attention span, but I'm not a fucking moron." Al's voice was actually serious for once, a tone he usually reserved for wars and painful reminiscing about Arthur. He placed his other hand over his heart. "I've been feeling you hurting for the last three days of this damned meeting. Ask him. You have nothing to lose."

"I'm not going to ask him out just to prove something to you, dipshit. And I could ask you the same about Arthur. At least I haven't spent several hundred years circling my obnoxious drunk."

Alfred winced, and I almost felt badly. He meant well, and when I thought about it he must have been seriously worried for me. He'd been rubbing his chest since the meetings began, but we all assumed he had heartburn from his truck-loads of McDonald's. There was no point in lying to him of course- we can't lie to each other; we used to make a game of trying as children.

"That's different," he whispered. "We have a painful past, and I have diplomatic issues to think about. 'Special Relationship' and all." The last was spat out bitterly. "And I have everything to lose, Mattie. It's taken over two hundred years for us to even reach this pathetic state. Look at him over there ranting- he's still not over my Revolution. Do you think he'd ever believe me if I told him I loved him? Do you honestly think he even trusts me enough to go on a _date_ with me? "

"I'm sorry, Alfie," I returned, taking his hand in my own. "I didn't mean that. But I can't. I'm not brave like you."

"Just a dance, Mattie. Ask him to dance. I think you'll be surprised."

I looked down into my whiskey. Nothing to lose…

"You dance with me first, Al. Then…I'll try."

Dance with me first, brother. You, who was my whole world. You, who is the light to my dark, the reflection of myself. I suppose that in a way dancing with you is dancing with the me that could be if I were braver.

Alfred smiled at me then, and took my hand, leading me to the jukebox and nudging Prussia and Denmark out of the way. He made his selection with an evil smirk and dragged me to the tiny dance floor, shooing away a few drunken college girls who squealed and giggled at the sight of us. The opening bars of the song started as he took me in his arms, clearly intending to lead. I cringed- apparently my twin is not just tacky, but reads minds.

"Come on, Al, that's campy even for you."

"Billy Idol rocks, dude. Besides, we're like totally identical," he retorted, doing an excellent impression of Poland. "So it's _funny_."

"Hoser."

"Retard."

"Arthur's glaring at us. At me, actually. Probably wondering why he's so drunk he's seeing double."

Alfred spun us around playfully so he could see. "Yep- I'm going to get an epic rant when we're done. Oh well. Hey- look who else is watching us, hmm?"

On our next turn, I could see ruby eyes watching us intently, despite a loud argument between Matthias and the bartender occurring not six inches from their owner. I flushed heavily. "He probably wants to know when you're going to be done so you can have some stupid drinking contest or something."

"Did I tell you he mistook _me_ for _you_ in the hallway after the break-out session this afternoon?" Alfred remarked casually. I actually stepped on his toes at that one. "Ow, Mattie, spaz much?"

"Really?" I hated the break in my voice, and the hope that threatened to well up inside me. Hope was dangerous.

"He did. Seemed kinda disappointed it was me, to tell you the truth."

My eyes met Alfred's sparkling blue ones. "You're not having me on?"

"Nope. Go get him, tiger."

He spun me away from himself hard as the song ended, directly into Gilbert's lap. Strong hands caught my shoulders to stop my forward momentum, leaving our noses inches from each other.

"You okay there, liebliche?"

"Fine," I whispered. "Thank you."

A smile curled up the corners of thin, pale lips. "Any time, Matthew."

Guess that song wasn't right for me after all, Alfred. I don't need to ask the world to dance. Just one ex-nation will be good enough for me.

I took a breath, and held out my hand.


	3. Track Three: "When We Die", by Bowling for Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America thinks about the one he can't live with but can't be without, and predictably gets more (though less eloquent) screen time than Canada. Set the morning after Track Two.

I don't know who it was that first said that time heals all wounds, but he was obviously a human. He was also a monumental idiot.

When you live as long as we do, time does tend to…blend after a while. While nations are capable of retaining memories with far more clarity than humans, the edges of them still soften and blur if they are old enough. Though I am too young yet to have experienced it myself, Francis once told me that the years themselves do the same for the elders among us; that decades and even entire eras become like a faded tattoo whose shape the possessor himself can't even make out anymore. A few years ago, when I was in Beijing for the Olympics, I even asked Yao about it. He was showing me the Great Wall at the time, and he stopped and asked me to take his hand. I almost made one of my flippant remarks, but there was such warmth and wisdom in those sepia eyes of his that I just slipped my palm into his small my mind, I could see the passing of hundreds of emperors, of millennia of rulers both good and evil; I could see billions of people and their wars and their famines and their joys and their fears. And behind it all, I could see Yao's sadness and exhaustion and the myriad scars that he bore in silence. When he released my newly icy fingers, I realized I had tears on my cheeks.

_"That is what it is to be immortal, little brother. Time does not heal our wounds and erase our mistakes; it simply makes the pain of them less sharp. After all, when a human loses a limb, does he grow it back good as new in time? Or must he simply learn to adapt to the changes in his body and deal with them accordingly?" He smiled at me, patting me on the arm as though I were a tiny child in his care, needing solace after a nightmare. "You are so very young, America. You are still reckless and impulsive, and pay too little attention to your own history; but you are capable of adapting more so than most nations because you were born in a time of great change. Give him more time- we old ones don't change quite as quickly and tend to nurse our wounds for longer. And the wound of losing you was the deepest of all his long years."_

I don't know why I was surprised that the cagey old bastard knew why I asked in the first place. I wish I could take his advice, I really do. I wish I was wiser, or had more patience; I wish I could let things play out to their natural conclusions. I wish I could be bothered to "read the atmosphere" as Kiku puts it, but those things just aren't in me. From the time I was born, I have lived my life by a singular contradiction- I pour my entire being into each day as though I were a mere human, yet take risks as though I were an indestructible elder. For we can die, we nations, especially the young ones. After all, "immortal" is just another word for "not dead yet". I suppose that when the Great Mother faded, leaving Mattie and I with nothing but spirit-visions of times to come, I assumed I would not last long either. I know now that she was one of the true ancients, the elementals far older than even China or Ancient Egypt, and that her era had simply ended. But then, it seemed to my childish mind that time was a fleeting thing that I had to spend hard, because it would never come back when I was gone.

It is the reason I grew so quickly, forcing my poor sweet twin to grow with me. It is the reason I clung so hard to England, and the reason I fought so hard to leave him; I felt I had to love him while I could, because I didn't have the time to stay and learn slowly from him like he wanted.

It's the reason I can't just wait around now for him to finally forgive me. I know that most nations, should they last, experience periods of boom and bust, of power and weakness. But while I have had down periods before, I have never truly had a _decline_ and I am afraid as I have never been before that my rapid rise to prominence was bought with my immortality. I am afraid of fading, and of doing so before I can make it right between England and myself again.

A bit maudlin for thoughts at six in the morning, really. I could almost hear my Mattie asking if I even know what that word means, but that moron was still sleeping off his drunk in my bed. Of course, the reason for all my brooding was in the guest room doing the same. Arthur was already plastered when we dragged him out of the bar and into my New York apartment last night, but he still managed to find my hoard of bourbon so he could continue his binge-rant one-two punch past last call. The pitiful broken-glass victims of his attack were bleeding out the last of their fluids into my kitchen sink, which was a damned shame. Some of that shit was expensive, and unlike a certain twin who shall remain Matthew I don't ruin my liquor with maple syrup.

As I picked the glittering shards from the porcelain, I couldn't help but think that it reminded me of how things stood between me and Arthur. Our relationship was broken recklessly into a hundred pieces, but if I tried hard enough I was sure I could put them back together again. They just might not fit in exactly the same way as before, but maybe that's a good thing. We aren't the same people we were before we separated, so why does he always seem to want to go back? Why does he think it worthwhile to sacrifice a better future for this fragmented present? Mattie, while in his drunken-sage mode last night, told me that Arthur and I have always seemed like partners in a Latin dance to him- whirling apart violently only to come back together again. _Always_ to come back together again. I suppose that it is true enough, as world affairs always seem to push us back into contact even when we'd rather be apart. It hurts to be near him. It hurts to be away from him. It hurts even more to receive a few blushing, stumbling overtures of friendship from the desire of my heart, only to be smacked down with insults and lectures later. Kiku has some special word for that attitude, but I can never remember it. Whatever it is, it makes him and Mattie laugh together at my expense quite frequently, so I'm not sure I want to know.

"Oi, hoser, where the fuck is the coffee?"

Speak of the freak and he pops out of the woodwork. Mattie is a mean son of a bitch when hung over and definitely not a morning person, so I just handed him a cup without responding. If I did, he'd just pull out his secret weapon- the Epic Rant of Extreme Nagging- and I just was not up to crying over what he would assure me are my many faults today. We drank in silence for a couple of minutes until his neurons started firing in the proper patterns, and then I saw it- a really goofy-ass smile on his lips.

"Just remembered last night, hmm?"

"Shut it," he sniped, but blushed anyway. A smaller, gentler curve of his lips followed- my favorite smile. The smile that means Mattie is simply _happy_. "I can't believe I asked him to dance! And he accepted!"

"Course he did. Who can resist the fabulous North America twins?"

Mattie stuck out his tongue. "I love how you can turn a compliment to me into one for yourself as well."

" _Identical twins_ ," I reminded him. "You looked like you had a great time. Are you going to see him again?"

Mattie's face suddenly looked like it could spontaneously combust- that had to be good. "He's going to take me to a carnival for my birthday in a few days. And he…"

For the love of McDonald's, was he giggling? He was!

"He kissed me goodnight, Al."

"And I missed it? When the fuck did Gilbo sneak that one in? He didn't give you the Bad Touch, did he? Vital regions still safe?"

"Al! Just because he hangs out with Papa and Antonio doesn't make him an automatic pervert. It was just a peck on the cheek, really, and it happened when you were scraping Arthur off the bar." Matt sighed into his coffee. "He really kissed me, Al. Me!"

"Who?"

"Shut it, fuzz-face," I said, smacking the bear on the nose for good measure. I punted the little shit to the floor to avoid a nasty bite, and then took my brother's hand. "I'm glad, Mattie. I think you and Herr Awesome will be good for each other. Besides, he's the one from Mother's vision- the wounded eagle- so he has to be the right one for you. Even so, if he hurts you I'll crush him into a paste and feed it to the bear."

"With syrup?"

Both of us ignored the furball that time. Matt squeezed my hand briefly, before wiping his across his face to dry a few threatening tears. "Thanks, Al."

"Whelp, enough warm fuzzies for the morning. I wonder if I should try to wake up the old drunkard. We do still have one day left of the UN Summit."

Matt actually snorted, the little traitor. "Good luck with _that_."

So much for brotherly love; I could use backup when trying to prod a wounded lion in his den. I walked to the front of the door to my guestroom, hand hovering over the knob in uncertainty. Arthur had been seriously drunk last night, making me very glad he left his ridiculous wand back in his London flat. His usual "ungrateful, Independence-declaring brat" rant had taken quite the different tack once he got into the bourbon, and he started clutching my shirtfront and talking about all the dreams and hopes he had for me as a child. He'd never really told me anything of the sort before. Back then, Arthur would simply pat me on the head and tell me to be a good, strong colony while he was away. At night, when he was here on my lands, he would stroke my hair, tell me stories, and send me to sleep with a kiss on the forehead and the assurance that I would always be his little brother. So much changed when he came back and I was nearly man-grown that I never had time to think about what he really saw in our future. Last night I got to hear it all, though I doubt he'll remember a word of it.

Arthur said I had been his favorite colony, though he was supposed to treat us all the same. That I had been different, that colonies were meant just to be resources for the homeland but that I was _special_ and why didn't I understand how he gave me everything? He dropped that shaggy golden head onto my shoulder and wet the fabric of my shirt through as he whispered that I was supposed to stay by his side, to be his angel; that I was supposed to help him rule his empire as his right hand. His tears nearly choked him as he told me that his old manor house used to be so lively, with portraits of us on the walls and my drawings and letters all about, but now it was so empty he could barely bear to be in it. Then he looked up at me with those marvelous, verdant pools of green that I have both worshipped and despised, and said the words that seared themselves into my brain forever.

" _I wish you had never chosen me, America, if you were just going to break me_."

He passed out after that, but Christ what a mind fuck. All these years, I have never really blamed Iggy for our estrangement. After all, quite a bit of his rant is correct; England gave me far more freedom than his other colonies, he actually let me into his heart, and I still left him. But honestly, I'm angry too and hardly think I deserve all the blame here either. His babbling last night proved what I have always suspected, that Arthur's view on our relationship is hopelessly skewed and that maybe he _never_ saw me clearly. Not to mention the repeated abandonment for years on end, the taxation without representation, the fact that he taught me to lead and to question then slapped me down when I tried to put those lessons into practice…

_And your angel? I was never that, love. I haven't really changed much since that first day I took your hand in that rolling field of grain. It is just your perceptions that altered. The pedestal you put me on was too high, Arthur, and I knew that I had to leave it if I ever wanted to be myself- even if it meant breaking my soul to pieces on the ground below. If I could shake off those unfair expectations, that shining, perfect ever-child you wanted me to be, then maybe I could finally stand beside you as an equal. It's all I've ever wanted, and I have to believe that all this pain is worthwhile to make us right._

We aren't worth losing. I have to keep that resolve in my heart and soldier on, but I need to know that I'm not in this alone. A look held a few moments too long, a flush of the cheeks when we speak, a biting retort to cover a soft word; all these give me hope, but my famed confidence is failing the longer this dance continues. How can I know if neither of us is willing to risk those words?

Gently pushing open the door, I put a hand up in front of my face as I edged into the room. I was still a child when I learned that Arthur is not only volatile when hung over, but that he also tends to shoot the messenger. And by "shoot", I mean "hurl whatever blunt object is at hand at the messenger's head". Luckily for me, the old pirate was still in the "huddle under the covers and claim he'll never drink again" mode.

"Someone kill me. I swear I'm never going to touch alcohol again."

"We both know that's a big fat lie," I snorted, settling on the bed and patting the England-shaped lump under the covers soothingly. "Come on, Artie. We've got one more day of the summit and I put some water on for tea."

One bloodshot green eye peered at me from the corner of the comforter. "Tea?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, you old geezer, I even have your favorite Darjeeling. And there's still some of that clotted cream left over in the fridge, and that raspberry jam you like for your scones."

I pulled the blankets off Arthur's form, and he blinked confusedly up at me; he was a mess of disheveled blonde hair and messy eyebrows, with cheeks crease-marked from his face-plant into the sheets and a little drool on his chin. He was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Why do you have those things in your house? You don't eat them."

"For you, stupid. Gods, it's like talking to Poland when you're hung over, Arthur. C'mon."

I turned to head back to the kitchen, rather relieved that England wasn't actually cognizant enough yet for a tantrum. A hand on my sleeve halted my progress.

"Alfred…what did I say last night?"

"Say?"

Arthur's massive brows furrowed heavily at that. I could play dumb with the best of them, so well in fact that most nations had no idea it was a farce at all. This man, however, had raised me- he knew better. Most of the time, anyway.

"Don't play the great fool with me, git. I can't remember anything after I started drinking that vile bourbon of yours, but that look on your face screams that I said something horrible. _What did I say?_ "

Well fuck me sideways- the tantrum was coming after all. My brain screamed at me to lie, lie, and lie some more for good measure. My heart argued for a sweeping, romantic confession of love. I almost snorted at that one; as Iggy would say, 'bugger that for a game of soldiers'. I settled on a compromise.

"Aw, you just got a little weepier than usual, ya know? Soaked right through my shirt, even."

And here it comes- the wind up, and the pitch, and…

"I most certainly did no such thing! I'm a gentleman, goddamnit."

"Yeah, you sure sound like one," I retorted. "And I thought you couldn't remember anything?"

"You…I'll…stupid git," he spluttered. He was so fucking cute when he got all pissy. Those giant brows knit together in the middle of his forehead and his lower lip starts to wobble even as he screams his lungs out. Honestly I have no idea why everyone was so damned scared of England, even in his bad-ass pirate imperialist days. His expressions are so adorably overdone that you just want to snuggle the crap out of him. And suddenly it occurred to me, while Arthur was untangling himself from the comforter, that I knew exactly how to find out if he wants to try and make this right, too. See, England lies constantly- to everyone. He lies about things that aren't even worth lying about, just to keep people at arm's length. Too bad for him that it never worked on me, and his reactions when lying to me are different than when he lies to anyone else. I even have a rhyme for it- if he pitches a fit, he's full of shit.

"You also," I tossed over my shoulder on the way out of the room, "said you miss me."

Dead silence for a moment. Come on, Arthur, have a hissy. Give me something that tells me we're going to be fine, and I'll wait as long as it takes.

"I…you…why would I…now you've really gone spare! You must have been more soused than I was, if you imagined that I would…bugger all, Alfred, stop grinning at me you twat!" Arthur fumed, his cheeks crimson and his voice inching into the hysteric octaves. He picked up the clock from the nightstand and chucked it at my head. Fortunately his aim sucks when he's hung over.

"Hahahaha! You missed, you relic," I snickered. You have to give him an insult to break the tension after something that reveals he might actually give a shit about someone else, just so he doesn't implode. "Come on, we'd better get you that tea and pour you into the shower so we're not late."

Muted grumbling behind me as Arthur struggled into his robe, but I couldn't resist poking him just once more.

"Hey Iggy?" I called back, and the softness of my tone must've registered because he actually stopped muttering under his breath long enough to make eye contact. I smiled- my real smile, the smile reserved just for Arthur and Mattie- and let him have it. "I miss you too."

I sauntered down the hall to the kitchen, flying high on the indignant rant now coming from the guest room behind me.

_Yeah. I know we're gonna be fine._


	4. Track Four: "Sweet Child O' Mine" by Guns 'N' Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England reflects on the unwitting confession of a beloved idiot. Set immediately after Track One.

There was no way I was sleeping after the bombshell Canada saw fit to drop on me, no matter how drunk I was. That cheeky little bugger is far more like his obnoxious brother than anyone realizes, and twice as duplicitous. For at least an hour I simply lay prone on the bed in America's guest room, feeling as though the Blitz were on again for the pain in my chest.

_He loves me. More than that, he's in love with me._

The older, smarter part of me wants to deny it; the part that survived everything those twat brothers of mine, France, and Denmark ever threw at me when I was a child still seems to rule how I deal with other countries. Count only on yourself, care for no one, _trust_ no one- and no one can hurt you. That little voice, my instinct, has served me well over the years; it has made me a conqueror, a pirate, an Empire (twice, mind you). At least, it served me well until the first time I looked down into those brilliant blue eyes. The first time anyone willingly and happily _chose_ me. America has always been the exception to the rule.

I am conflicted as to how to feel about any of this absurdity. For of course it is absurd that America should love me, of all nations, the one he abandoned. He was the one who did the leaving, after all. He isn't the one who drinks himself blind trying to escape the burden of his memories. I am unsure if the fat git even remembers our time together at all unless it is to taunt me with it. Yet, how to reconcile that perception of him that I have carried all these years with the melancholy tone in his voice tonight, with the weight of tears I could hear in that usually exuberant tenor as he professed that I cannot really see him at all? How to erase the utter wrongness I feel at the sober, wistful smile he did not know I could see, as he resignedly resolved to hide his emotions from me no matter the cost?

That is not the smile that belongs on my America's face at all. America's smiles have always been like his lands- wide and open and so free that it makes the soul ache. Once upon a time I thought I would have to live on the rest of this interminable life without ever seeing that smile again, but the last World War brought us back together in a way that I had not anticipated. It took months, but those smiles he seemed to give away so easily slowly began to be directed my way again, and I was able to feel a strange sort of contentment that I had only experienced once before in my life- during those golden days of America's childhood.

I'd give anything to feel that way again, that blissful contentment that steeped in my very pores when I was with my sweet little America. Back then, those beautiful smiles were reserved just for me and so was his love; that unconditional, pure adoration that I had no idea how I had earned or deserved. Somewhere inside I know that my mind puts a nostalgic haze on those times, and that America was always a cheeky, willful brat just as he is today. I know that those days spent reading together in a rolling field in the lazy sunshine and nights spent teaching him the names of the stars as he curled trustingly into my chest were in actuality few and far between. I do know that, America. I know that I left you so alone, so often, and for so long. I was building an Empire, flung across the entire wide world, and it often took months just to get from one colony to another. But what he doesn't understand is that I _lived_ for those times with him- they were the only times I could be myself. Not Britannia, not the United Kingdom, not even England; just Arthur. And try as I might those smiles America sends my way today still send me back to those precious days of joy. I want to see him as he is now, as the man he became and not the shade in my memories but it is nearly impossible when the feeling in my heart is exactly the same.

I love him too. I have always loved him.

Not the same type of love, certainly. Little brother, cherished friend, greatest regret, tentative ally, and back around the circle to best friend (though I'd rather chew glass than admit it to the git)- but lover? Francis has been badgering me about the nature of my relationship with America for decades, and he somehow got the impression that I was holding back out of a misplaced sense of morality about sleeping with someone I knew as a child. Piffle; not like I'd tell the frog that as he might start getting ideas about Alfred being 'available' then and he's been drooling over the boy since his Revolution. I'm not a fool- we aren't humans and there is no reason to pretend we are, or that we who have the burden of veritable immortality need bother with human moral strictures. For nations as old as myself, there will be few who I _haven't_ known as children. Leaving those out of the pool of potential lovers would leave me with only a handful of men who I quite frankly cannot stand, or _humans_. Not that most of us haven't dallied with humans for sex alone, but it is for all intents impractical to form a lover's bond with those who seem to rise and fall like mayflies to us, and who are incapable of understanding the responsibilities and onus of what we are. No, I knew from the moment that I saw Alfred grown that I wanted him in my bed some day; he had blossomed seemingly overnight from an adorable child to a lovely young man, and I knew that he would only continue to grow more beautiful as he matured fully. What I didn't want was to treat him like the others. My relations with my other colonies were used mostly to reinforce respective status, and to remind them that they served Britannia. But my America was always special, and I was greedy. I wanted him to _choose_ me, as he had done so long ago. I wanted to nurture him gently so that he came to me not out of a sense of obligation or order, not out of the first mistaken flush of puberty's admiration, but out of genuine desire. I wanted a partner, in the truest sense of the word. So often, I regretted giving him that time and freedom, as he used it to assume a place I had never intended- a place without me. My drunken rants aside, I do understand now why he had to leave me. As nations, the wills of our people cannot be denied when they are strong and united, and his people no longer saw themselves as mine. And Alfred- well, in his heart he has always needed to be the strong one, to be the hero who saves the day. He couldn't accomplish that in my shadow and under my command. America is meant to shine like the sun and yet I still yearn to capture that light and hold it in my hands, keeping it solely for myself. My sweet child does not deserve a selfish old man like myself, and yet…it seems it is what he wants. He has chosen me at last; he thinks that _he_ is the one who isn't worthy of _me_. Foolish, beloved idiot. I want you more than I can say.

But once that path is started down, it cannot be undone and I could not stand the pain of losing him a second time. Is it worth the risk, then, to try? To reach once again for that special place where there exists nothing but the bliss of America and I together, when I know all too well how it could end with me crying in the rain once more?

Of course it is. I would not give up those beautiful memories of my sweet child and I for anything, even for the pain that came after. _"Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty"_ , as America's old boss Teddy used to say. The conviction is there in my soul, assuredly, but the courage…not so much. I am not the hero, after all.

Gods, my drunk must be wearing off if I'm capable of chastising myself instead of just him. The great idiot could have left me some water or something so I don't get a headache. I dragged myself out of the sheets and stumbled gracelessly to the kitchen, rather absurdly glad that neither of the brats was up and about to witness it. I forced myself to drink at least a litre of water before shambling back down the hall, feeling a little less nauseated. It was strange that Canada wasn't on the couch, and I admit I felt a tiny pang of guilt that I must have ousted him from the guest room. We really don't _mean_ to ignore the poor boy. I peeked into America's bedroom (just to make sure Canada found somewhere to sleep, honestly), and found I could not make myself leave after the sight I beheld.

Not many nations realize how close the twins really are, and perhaps only Francis, Gilbert, and myself get to see their bond in person. This wasn't always the case; back when they were just tiny colonies, Matthew and Alfred felt they had to hide their connection from us to protect themselves and their interests, and to keep one from being used against the other. It worked so well that Francis and I had no idea that they even kept in contact until we bore witness to Alfred's reaction to Auschwitz in World War 2. He had gone in for the cleanup after Russia's dismantling of the place, arriving bedraggled and exhausted from the Pacific theater. What he saw I cannot be sure, but when he returned those sky eyes brimmed over with anger and pain, as though a storm was rolling in their depths. It burned me deeply, that dead flatness to the clear blue that I associated only with happiness. That blue that I needed to know could still carry laughter even in the midst of the worst war the world had ever known. Alfred was just becoming a super power then, and so strong that I often forgot that he was still just a boy in our terms; he had grown up quickly, to be sure, but in a far different and less savage time than France and I had. We had known atrocities the younger nations had never imagined, and despite my conflicted feelings about him I had never wanted Alfred to know them. As I wracked my brain for a way to comfort him (he couldn't be soothed anymore by scones and a kiss to the forehead, at any rate), he walked straight past us as if in a daze.

_"Mattie…" he whispered, reaching both arms out for Canada, who we just realized was right behind us on the couch in the headquarters lounge the whole time._

_"Alfie…" Canada replied, holding his arms wide for his twin. Alfred barreled into them, clinging to his brother as though he were his lifeline. Dry, wracking sobs shook his powerful frame- he seemed to have forgotten that France and I were even there to witness the 'hero' break down. He started a choked litany in a strange, sing-song language I did not recognize but Canada clearly did. Matthew smoothed his twin's hair and rocked his body back and forth, occasionally replying in that same tongue. Francis appeared absolutely baffled as America's cries eventually quieted and his breathing evened out, falling into a drained sleep in Canada's tight hold. Matthew eased himself back on the couch, rearranging Alfred to lay on his chest with his ear over his brother's heart, their long legs tangling together intimately. He then shot us the fiercest look I've still ever seen him wear._

_"If either of you ever mentions this again, or even dares to suggest that this affects his combat ability in this war, you will have to answer to me. And I promise, you will find out why the Germans call me 'shock trooper' if you do."_

It broke my heart and cheered me at the same time. It was reassuring to know that the Alfred I knew, the sensitive boy who wanted to save everyone, was still there behind America's bluster. It also soothed me to know that if I was no longer able to be the one Alfred could turn to, that he had always had Matthew. Smiling a little at the memory, I compared it to the position the boys were in now. The two forms were nearly impossible to make out as individuals, so twisted together were the long , bare limbs. Matthew lay on his back with Alfred sprawled out across his chest and torso, his face buried in Canada's neck. Matthew's own face was tilted towards his brother's, his nose buried in golden hair and his arms folded over Alfred's shoulders. The thin sheets pooled low around their hips, bringing the fact that they were clearly naked forcefully to the front of my mind. I stifled the pending nosebleed at the thought of twincest with difficulty, practically hearing Alfred's strident admonitions about my status as 'pervert ambassador'. It was even harder to shove down the jealousy I suddenly felt of Matthew, and the yearning to join that cozy tableau of clear and obvious love. Even though Alfred slept with me often during our days together, he was always the one to seek it out due to fright over ghosts or other spirits that he saw about the property. I never told him how much I adored it, that small, warm body clinging to me so tightly. I would lay there in the velvet night and breathe in the scent of his silken hair- apple blossoms and sweet grass fields- and dream of the sun. My homeland is a dark and rainy place, ominous during its frequent storms, and as a child I used to ride the thunder out in a small protected glade in Salisbury that the fairies showed me. It was my safe haven in a brutal world, a place to which I retreated to pray for my brother-conquerors to pass me by. Slowly and surely, that place had been supplanted with a new one; anywhere America was by my side.

"Iggy? Izzat you?"

Startled, I jumped a good foot in the air at America's drowsy voice. I could feel my cheeks turning crimson as I fought for a reply.

"Go back to sleep, Alfred. I was just getting a glass of water."

"Bullshit," Alfred chuckled. He nudged his brother, who blinked violet eyes up at me sleepily then moved over a foot or so to his left. America laughed again, a low cat's-purr rumble, and held up the corner of the sheets invitingly. "Come on, you. Get in here with us for a good cuddle."

"Don't be stupid!" I snapped, horribly embarrassed and rather worried about…other reactions should I enter a bed with two gorgeous naked blondes, one of whom I may have rather strong feelings for. "I think you're still drunk, you twat."

"Naw. Just wanna. We haven't slept together in ages, Iggy, and you were always super comfy," Alfred replied with a cheeky but indolent grin. "Besides, old man like you'll get all lonely in the guest room by yourself."

"I'm not old, brat!" I tried to force myself to retreat, but I'll be buggered if my legs weren't stuck and my eyes riveted on the covers that America was still shaking at me.

"Damn it Arthur, just get in or he'll never shut up," Canada moaned, pulling a pillow over his head.

Two against one is hardly fair, no matter how much I adore my boys. I sighed heavily and slid into the huge bed on Alfred's side, facing the wall and keeping as close to the edge as possible.

"Not there, stupid," America whispered, grabbing me around the middle and flipping me over himself to settle between the twins. Matthew rolled over and draped one arm over my stomach to wrap around Alfred's waist, and his twin did the same on the other side. Both boys threw a leg over each of mine, and nuzzled into my neck. I felt as though I would combust by this time, but also a little nostalgic. There had been more than a few thunderstorms when Canada had still lived in the house with America and I where the boys had stampeded into my bed in fright, only to cage me between them in the same way. Hesitantly, I slipped an arm around each, cupping their broad shoulders in my hands. Two lazy, appreciative murmurs brushed the skin of my throat in reply.

"Mmmm….Arthur smells good," Matthew breathed, nearly asleep.

"Yeah," his twin replied, clearly starting to drift off himself. "Like roses and the sea and the sky before a rainstorm in fall…"

"Gits," I said softly, but there was no sting in the word. I gently brushed my lips against Matthew's forehead. "Goodnight, dear one." Canada just mumbled in reply, snuggling closer. I turned to do the same to Alfred, only to find those cerulean pools staring hopefully back up at me.

"Hey, what about me?"

I snorted, shaking my head slightly. "Goodnight to you too, darling." I inclined my head down to press my lips to his forehead as well, but America was never one to do the expected. He leaned up at the last moment, catching my lips with his in the ghost of a kiss. He blushed madly before resettling on my chest.

"Goodnight, Arthur."

I lay there for quite some time after Alfred's breathing evened out, lips burning with the too-brief contact, trying to come to a decision. Where do we go from here, darling? It seems like you decided to push the envelope, yet tell me nothing at all at the same time. Plausible deniability I'm sure- if I get angry later you can always brush this off as fatigue or the lingering effect of alcohol or even pretend you can't remember a thing. Must it always be that way for us? This dance around what we truly feel and mean? I don't want that. And yet…I'm not quite ready to jump in headfirst and neither are you, apparently. Perhaps all we really need to do is just bend a little at a time. I pulled Alfred a little closer to me, reveling in his warmth and the feel of his sighs against my skin. I promise to try, poppet. And wherever we do go from here, it will be together my sweet child- my love.


	5. Track Five: "Nemo", by Nightwish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prussia thinks back on his meetings with Canada, and thinks a little maple candy could cure his depression. Or maybe the whole box. Takes place a few hours prior to Track Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The speech England makes about the dissolution of Prussia comes verbatim from Law Number 46 of the Allied Control Council, enacted on February 25, 1947. This law ended forever the state of Prussia as an administrative part of Germany and split its territory between Poland, Russia, Germany, and many other nations.
> 
> German translations:
> 
> Mein Gott- My God
> 
> Gott im Himmel- God in Heaven
> 
> Willkommen in Europa- Welcome to Europe
> 
> Liebliche/Liebling- Sweetie, Darling
> 
> Vögelchen- little bird

Mein Gott, these UN summits are boring. I don't know why West insists that the Awesome Me needs to be here for this crap. I suppose I should be grateful that he doesn't make me go to the G8 or G20 meetings, too.

_"You are Germany as much as I am bruder, just like Feli's bruder is also Italy. That means that you still have responsibilities, even if I serve as our voice."_

Responsibilities, hell. I'm not really Germany, "East" or otherwise; it's just a technicality that keeps me alive and kicking. Alive for what purpose, I do not know. If someone had told me a century ago that mighty Prussia would soon be no more, that my lands and my people would be scattered to the winds and I would be a ghost left drifting through the world with no home and no name, I would have beaten him to the ground and spit on his broken body. Yet here I am- a lost creature fallen from grace, but definitely no angel. They call me a drunkard, a bully, an idiot, a slut. Yeah, all of that and more, and so the fuck what? I've been so much more than most of them will _ever_ be- a priest, a knight, a soldier, a mentor, and once, to a broken Empire, a savior. So if this modern world has left me a bit of a fucked-up has-been, I'll live with it- in that I'm not alone.

My eyes wandered around the risers to my comrades in the fine art of being washed up. There was Tonio, of course- conquistador and king of the seas one minute, impoverished slacker of Europe the next. Francis, a great power for over a millennium, became a euro trash punch line. Matthias the Mad King of the North, now doomed to a spit of frozen land and snarky former vassals turned babysitters. And Arthur of course- Mighty Britannia, on who's Empire the sun never set. Now he's a fussy, drunken, tantrum-throwing crybaby obsessed with his former charge.

Is this to be me, forever? Doomed to an existence with no real purpose or significance? Even my name isn't real any longer. Prussia they still call me, but Prussia is no more- Prussia was shattered by those sainted Allies and thrown, still bleeding from the deathblow, to the frozen clutches of Mother fucking Russia. I want to believe I survived the dissolution of my kingdom for a reason, that there is still some great endeavor left for me in this world. It is the only lifeline that remains.

I leaned my chin on my hand and listened to Ludwig drone on, pushing his glasses up his nose and barking at anyone who looked as though he might be nodding off. My brother doesn't need me any longer- he has a strong government, a good economy, and a lasting presence in the world…and Feliciano. A far cry from the pitiful, amnesiac child I dragged from the battlefields so long ago, but that was the point, wasn't it? The sinner-priest, doing his last duty for Holy Rome- it would be fucking poetic if it weren't so cliché. That douche Austria won Hungary centuries ago, and as close as Tonio, Francis, and I are we are all too broken and old to mend each other. There is no one left. Except…

My eyes lingered for a moment on the desk to my right and down two rows- the North American delegation. America sat on the end, doodling stars on his proposal and studiously ignoring England's disapproving glare from across the aisle. Mexico sat on the far side, shooting poisonous glances across the middle seat at America's back. Guess he heard about America's increased textile imports from Asia, then. Ah well, sucks to be Al. I wouldn't turn my back on Mexico for a second- bitch is all spooky magic death-spells like England and Norway. But in the center, rubbing his temples and trying vainly to make peace between the two, was _him_. Canada is my entire reason for not throwing a bigger bitch-fit about coming to these meetings. Seeing Ludwig head for the podium for a long (and no doubt fucking boring) speech on the economic crisis in the European Union, I let my mind drift back to the first time I ever set eyes on Matthew Williams.

It was April of 1778, and I had recently arrived in the miserable back hills of Pennsylvania called "Valley Forge" with Old Man Fritz's former general, Von Steuben, to whip the colonial "army" into shape. They were pathetic, and at first I thought America was too- he was just a damn kid, only looked about 13 and had barely passed his first century. He was a farmer, not a soldier, and had a soft heart and too many reservations about fighting his former keeper. I told him he looked like a weak little bitch, turned my back on him, and went to beat the hell out of France for convincing me to haul my sorry ass to the backwoods of nowhere. I only made it about twenty paces before a cannon crashed down in front of me, blocking my path. A fucking _cannon_ \- and it had been _lobbed_ over my head like it was a child's toy by the grinning, half-grown sprout behind me. Well, that little demonstration of retarded strength changed everything. I spent every minute after that determined to turn America into the finest soldier and warrior the world had ever seen, and only partly because it would piss off England. I had also started to really like the kid, despite his unreasonable refusal to fuck me or France; after all, I sensed a kindred spirit of awesome in that brat and I wasn't going to chuck that _and_ the chance to fuck up England just to tap that admittedly gorgeous ass. Well, one night after I left America half-dead from exhaustion in his tent, I decided to go for a little walk around the hills; you know, get the feel for the place and the terrain. I wasn't five miles from camp when I started to get the creeps; while a nation can always feel the presence of another nation on his own lands, we had to get pretty close to each other when we weren't on home turf to do the same. I spun around in alarm only to find a loaded musket in my face, primed and ready to fire. I thought for a second I was losing it- how did America get there so fast and why was he holding a weapon on me? Then I realized who the lovely boy with the determined expression must be; he and America had the same face, features that were still changing from the adorable roundness of childhood to a strong beauty that so few men seemed to achieve. But his hair was a shade darker, more honey than wheat, and his eyes held a bit of violet in with the blue. That hair fell in soft waves around his face rather than smooth short strands, with a single curl over his forehead rather than a stubborn cowlick. I put my hands up slowly, palms open.

_"Well, well, liebliche. Seems you got the drop on the awesome me- good for you. You must be Canada."_

_The boy looked very surprised. "How do you know who I am?"_

_"France talks about you all the fucking time, kid. I think you're part of the reason he's helping America out- well, that and he really wants to punch England in the balls. In fact, he's almost as worked up as America that you're with Old Eyebrows in this brawl."_

_Canada never lowered his weapon, but an adorably vulnerable look crossed his face. It was the same one America got whenever anyone mentioned England's name. "I have to be, I'm still his colony. And most people either think I'm America or don't see me at all."_

_I snorted. "Any fool can see you're not America." I was a little puzzled by how shocked and grateful Canada seemed at that. Weird. And for some reason, I didn't want him to be caught out here spying by the colonials, either. "Look, kid, you cannot be out here, if you catch my meaning. The Awesome Prussia will let you go this time, but…"_

_"Prussia?" he replied, his voice a whispered shadow of his brother's. He lowered his musket to the ground, and leaned in closer to look at my eyes. Yeah, I knew the albino thing was kind of creepy to some people, but somehow I didn't want this gentle kid to think so. "Your eyes…like maple leaves in the fall, just as she said."_

_"Okay…." I said slowly. People had called my eyes a lot of things before, but never anything as poetic as that. Like they were…beautiful instead of odd. Apparently that had answered something for the kid, though, because he nodded once and slung his gun over his back. The stiff redcoat uniform seemed so inappropriate for this strange, ethereal creature._

_"Please give Al a message for me. Tell him that I am sorry it is not time for me or my people yet. Tell him that I still love him with all my heart. And tell him that I will watch over his Lion if he does the same for my Eagle."_

_"All right." My mouth moved on its own, unable to deny such a heartfelt request. Was I going soft or something? Canada smiled then and I could see where people could mistake him with his twin- their smiles were identical, they burned into your soul like the fucking sun rising over the hills._

_"Thank you, Prussia." He turned away, moving soundlessly towards the tree line and away from where the camp lay behind me._

_"Wait!" Canada glanced back over his shoulder, a question in those twilight eyes. "Your name…what's your human name?"_

_Another glaring smile. "Matthew. Matthew Williams." He ran then, disappearing swiftly into the shadows like a deer._

_"Matthew Williams. Canada. I'll remember you, that's for sure."_

I had never forgotten him. Even though I only caught glimpses of him from a distance over the next hundred plus years, that brief meeting seemed to burn itself into my brain. The closest I got to him was a meeting of the eyes across a ballroom at the World Fair in London in 1851- and damned if that lovely boy didn't grow up into an even lovelier man. That hair was down around his chin then, framing a face with high delicate cheekbones balanced by a strong, and masculine jaw line. That indigo tint to his eyes had seemed to deepen even more, and his nose had gained a cute uptilt that I thought was fucking adorable. Those long legs and broad back kept me from going too far in that vein of thought, though, and sent me straight into the gutter instead. Heh- my preferred mental home. He was being ignored again, all but shoved up in a corner behind England's other colonies, though I caught a loaded glance exchanged between himself and his brother behind the old pirate's back. Our gazes locked just then, and Canada seemed to just light up. For _me_ \- Prussia the asshole of all people. His lips twitched upwards into a sweet smile, and he raised his hand in greeting. I started to raise mine back, intending on marching right over there to ask him to dance, but Ludwig interrupted. Bitch is a born cockblock. I gave my little bird an apologetic smile and blew him a kiss as I was dragged off, and I swear Canada turned so red you could have cooked on his face. We didn't meet again until the Second World War, and that sure as hell wasn't what I had wanted.

I kept my memories of those brief interactions safe in my head, like flowers pressed in a book; precious things to be revisited when the world seemed to be growing darker every day. War was changing by the minute, with weapons that could take down hundreds of men in a swoop and bombs delivered from the very skies that could destroy cities as easily as crumpling paper. It wasn't about who was the baddest-ass warrior or soldier anymore, but who could afford to throw the most cannon fodder into the fight, who had the most money to drop on ammunition, who could be the most ruthless, or who could invent new killing machines the fastest. And we, Germany and I, weren't fighting just for land anymore. Our bosses wanted the world itself- not that I haven't always wanted to be top dog but these humans didn't want control over only territory. They wanted to control the very thought and race and religion of men. My sins were growing so black that nothing could ever absolve them; even that flower in my mind had started to wither from the weight of my crimes.

I was walking the dark path when we met again, during the Battle of the Scheldt, in Antwerp. The British had recaptured the city in October of 1944, but we still controlled the estuary and with it could cut off Allied shipping and supply lines. We'd been fighting the Canadian 1st for five weeks, and were losing ground despite heavy losses on their side. It came down finally to Walcheren Island, one of the greatest strongholds our army had created. We had been forced back to the high ground from RAF bombing of the dykes, and Ludwig had his hands full with the British amphibious vehicles and street fighting. I was given the task of meeting the Canadian troops who had established a bridgehead on the eastern side of the island. The fight for the Scheldt was particularly brutal, and I knew that Canada had sustained casualties to rival those in Normandy; so many of those men had been killed by me personally. I had lost myself in the blood and the desperation by then, unaccustomed to the crushing fear and anxiety of _failure_. I could feel my sanity starting to slip away, a red haze descending on my vision as the sweet symphony of gunfire and screams rang in my ears. That peculiar pressure in my forehead announced his presence, and I spun to meet Canada's gun barrel with my own. Both weapons were flung away from the impact, leaving us to grapple in the mud. No longer was he the half-grown child from Valley Forge, or the awkward teenager from London. This was a man; a furious man made of bared teeth and wild eyes aflame with vengeance. That honey hair was bedraggled and rain-swept, his glasses chipped and askew; his uniform had a vicious tear at the left shoulder, blood staining the ragged edges and seeping down the sleeve. It was Canada's strength that surprised me, though- despite the losses his army and people had sustained, he flung me into a tumbled wall of broken stone as easily as his more famous brother would. He reached me again in three long strides, snagging my collar and dragging me up to meet a crushing right hook that sent the black veil of unconsciousness across my vision.

I came to in the dark, laid out naked on a pile of blankets in the center of a small army tent. A single lantern illuminated the small space, casting a warm golden glow on the sleeping form of Canada by my side. He was clean now, the lamplight throwing a halo on his soft hair and smooth, tanned skin. Long eyelashes fluttered open, exposing his soul to me. Those eyes seemed even darker then, like the ocean after a storm, like the deep mountain lakes of my home. The fire and the rage were still present in those fathomless orbs, but a piercing sadness overlaid it all. He still looked like an angel to me.

_"Why…?"_

_Canada was silent for a long moment, leaning up on one elbow and gently brushing a piece of hair out of my eyes. "My brother and I are not like other nations. We are not born of blood and war." His expression hardened then, resolved. "But we can make war as well as any of you, if it becomes necessary."_

_"Of that I have no doubt, vögelchen. But that doesn't explain why I'm here with you, clean and wounds dressed, while you sleep. Either you are naïve beyond belief, or you have something else in mind here." I gave a pointed smile, stretching my sore arms over my head to allow the blankets to fall around my waist. "I can't say that I've ever been the spoils of war before, liebliche. It's usually the other way around, but I'll try not to disappoint."_

_His face was completely blank for a minute, then his eyes widened and his face turned scarlet. "You think I brought you here to…to…" he spluttered, tugging the blanket up to his chin protectively. It was fucking adorable._

_"Fuck me? Of course. Mein Gott, Canada, you cannot be this innocent. This is how nations make war, little one- we rape and pillage and brutalize and **take** ," I replied, incredulous. "Willkommen in Europa."_

_"Screw Europa," he spat. This kid was utterly fascinating, a veritable cornucopia of contradictions. Hard and soft, warrior and innocent, nation and human. "I brought you here because once upon a time, in a different war, you did me a favor. I'm returning it. You can go back to your camp whenever you feel you are able, but I wouldn't recommend being seen. My people have lost many brothers in this battle, and you are conspicuous."_

_I couldn't help but be a bit disappointed. Canada was beautiful, strong, brave, and so kind it hurt. I wanted to be touched by that kindness, even if it was tinged with his anger; to hold something so pure and clean in my stained hands and perhaps rediscover myself. I leaned up into his space, slipping my fingers through that yellow silk framing his face and letting my breath wash over his lips. Canada's pupils dilated, alarm warring with hesitant but clear arousal._

_"You are certain, vögelchen? You are the victor, and I find that for you…I do not mind surrender." I let my voice slip into a husky, low register- the one that always made Francis and Tonio ready to drop their clothes on the floor. I could feel the heat pooling in my groin as I watched him swallow heavily, willing him to cross that last few centimeters to take my lips with his. Something in that void I used to call a heart was aching for him; aching for a short moment of comfort from the rain._

_The anticipation nearly broke me as Canada's eyes stayed locked on mine. His nose brushed mine as he came closer, and I let my eyes slip shut. The kiss I was waiting for never materialized, his lips pressing softly to my cheek instead before his warmth receded from my side altogether. I gave him the most disbelieving look in my repertoire as he slid out of the blankets to cross to the small table and chair by the corner, picking up his discarded uniform shirt and draping it back across his shoulders._

_"That's not who I am. Call me naïve, call me innocent, and tell me I'm not a true nation, but I don't do that for anything less than love." He smiled at me then, pushing his hair behind his ears and wrapping his arms around his middle almost protectively. "I have to meet with England now. Stay as long as you need, and please…take care of yourself, Prussia."_

_He spun on his heel and left the tent then, leaving me cold and alone in the dark._

"Mein Gott, America, you have the attention span of a child! This is important!"

My brother's grating voice yanked me out of my memories. Ooh, and Ludi's got that vein popping in his forehead that he usually reserves for Romano. America held up his hands in defense.

"Just chill, Germany. I'm totally paying attention!"

He is, of course. As someone who spent a lifetime projecting a mask of "obnoxious idiot" for my own advantage, I can recognize Al's, and it's very good. He proved it by repeating back everything Ludwig had just said and tossing in a side of statistical analysis on it. He followed up with a vicious glare at his brother, but was met with an unrepentant smirk. Another thing most people don't know about Canada- he's both mischievous and deviously hilarious. He's sort of perfected the art of using his invisibility to his advantage over these last few decades, making sarcastic comments in the middle of meetings and playing pranks on other nations (often his brother). Poor Al, being one of the only nations that regularly sees and hears Canada, is often accused of "laughing at nothing" or "not paying attention".

I smiled to myself as America gathered his papers for his own proposal; Canada tugged his sleeve before he headed to the podium, whispering heatedly in his ear and sliding some papers of his own into Al's stack. Clever little thing. I've noticed that's the only way Canada ever gets any of his ideas on the table; he funnels them through America. It leaves most of the nations with the distinct impression that Al's some kind of idiot-savant schizophrenic, but it gets the job done. Their quiet, unspoken teamwork made me a bit jealous, I'll admit. It served to my advantage once, though- on the worst day of my long life.

_"The Prussian State, which from early days had been the bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany, has defacto ceased to exist. The Prussian State with its central government and all its agencies is abolished."_

_England's words had barely left his mouth when the tearing sensation began. A searing line of fire rent its way through my belly, blood spilling over the hands clutched over my abdomen. Dimly, I could hear Ludwig's panicked voice calling my name as my vision wavered and darkened. I fell backwards into space, warmth wrapping around my pain-wracked body before I could hit the floor. Scent of the air before a snow, of leaves in autumn, a sweetness I couldn't identify cradling me from behind- Canada. Strong hands on my own, putting pressure on my wounds and a steady voice telling me to be strong- America._

_I woke up in a cell, bandaged and weak, feeling as though my soul had been ripped from my body. A cavernous emptiness yawned in my chest. And I realized with a start that my heart seemed to have a new rhythm, a half-rhythm that stuttered with every beat. How was I even still alive?_

_"Hahahaha! Come on, dude, it's totally no problem."_

_"General Jones, sir, Lord Kirkland has given strict instructions that no one is to enter this cell block."_

_"Man, like I'd even be here if Iggy didn't give me the A-OK. You guys know he loves me, anyway."_

_I snorted, even through the throbbing in my gut. America would always be America, come hell or high water._

_"Prussia?"_

_A whisper of a voice, like a breeze through pine trees. I sat up slowly, grabbing the bars next to my pallet to drag myself to my knees. "Canada?"_

_"Yes. America's keeping the guards busy so I can talk to you."_

_"Why? Why do you care about a fallen enemy, either of you?"_

_"Prussia…Al remembers what you did for him in his Revolution. And I…" he broke off, flushing. Even half-dead, I still found him so cute I could barely stand it. I reached my hand through the rungs, cupping his flaming cheek._

_"You…?"_

_"I can't really explain it," he whispered, averting his eyes. "You see me, when no one else does. You always have. It makes me feel real."_

_"You are more real than any nation I know, vögelchen. Please, you must tell me- how am I alive?"_

_"We aren't sure, really. They weren't sure that this would actually kill you in the first place, since you had so much territory and so many people of diverse backgrounds to start." He smiled then, laying his own hand over the one I still had on his jaw. "Your 'militarism' may have even been what saved you. Since your people were so different to start, moving into other countries' territories won't affect them seeing themselves as Prussian."_

_"Gott im Himmel. But, if Prussia is no more, what is to become of me?"_

_Canada's eyes saddened, a tinge of fear creeping into their depths. "You passed out before England could finish. You…oh, Prussia. I'm so sorry. Berlin is to be split in two with a great wall and the territory east of it will go to Russia." His other hand slid through the gap in the bars to clutch my shoulder. "You're to go to Russia's house. Al and I- we couldn't stop it. We tried! They said we aren't of Europe, and have nothing to do with the dispensation of European territory. And Al and Ivan…the war is barely over and they've already set their sights on each other. With Al's new weapon and his becoming a superpower, and Ivan's insanity, I'm afraid for the world. Afraid for you. Ivan will hurt you if he can- for revenge, to piss off Al, just for the hell of it."_

_"Russia, huh?" I laughed a little, wincing when it pulled at the tender skin of my stomach. "I can deal with that crazy bastard. He can't handle this much fucking awesome." Two crystal tears spilled down Canada's cheek then, and I strained my muscles to hold his lovely face in both of my hands. "Oh, liebling, don't cry. I'm not worth something as precious as that. Don't worry about me. If I can survive the end of Prussia, I can survive comrade Ivan and come out the other side with my awesome intact."_

_"Prussia…"_

_"Gilbert. Call me Gilbert, Matthew."_

_"Gilbert."_

_I closed my eyes. America's laughter filtered through from the hall, sharing some crude joke with the guards. He whistled, and Canada stiffened. "That's America's signal. We have to go."_

_"Liebling…can I ask something of you?"_

_"Of course, Gilbert. If it's in my power, I'll do it." Matthew's eyes were so sincere, his fingers closing over mine._

_"Kiss me. I don't half deserve it, but give me something beautiful to take with me to hell."_

_"Um…Okay." With crimson cheeks, Matthew leaned towards me and I tangled my fingers in that gorgeous hair. It was awkward with the bars in the way, but his lips were warm and smooth on mine. I had kissed hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in my life, both nation and human. Never before had I been kissed so tenderly, so gently, so lovingly. When he pulled back, it took everything I had not to weep with loss._

_"You'd better go now, Matthew," I whispered, caressing his jaw before pulling my hands back into the cell. "We'll have a beer when I get free from the commie, ja?"_

_"Deal."_

Hope. That one chaste kiss gave me such hope, and for that I was willing to face anything. It fueled my dreams for decades, and lent me the strength to get up every day and tell Ivan to go fuck himself. As I met those violet eyes across the summit chambers, I grinned. He still gives me hope, an unrelenting belief that perhaps I can still have some meaning in this world. Even if he is still shy and awkward, even if it has been nearly 65 years since he gave me that kiss, I believe that Canada could actually want me. Not for sex, or for fun, or for sport, but for keeps. I've always seen him, so maybe it will work in reverse; maybe he can help me find myself. After all, I'm far too awesome to stay moping like this for long. I sent my little bird a slow, lusty grin, delighting in his blush. _Oh Canada_ , indeed. I've waited long enough. Tonight, I'm going to cash in on that beer you promised, liebliche. From there? I think I could find a home again…with you.


	6. Track Six: "Neverending Story", by Within Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Legend of the Hero Twins- the birth and purpose of the North America brothers.

The story of the birth of North America is the tale of a journey that no man living remembers. It is a story that is both beautiful and insane, a story in which we all play a part. A story that has no end.

Before man came to live upon the Earth, there was a great mass of land surrounded by water. The Great Spirit saw this and found it beautiful, but not ready for his people-to-be. So he spoke with Mother Earth and together they pushed the land into six living-pieces to spread across the seas and a seventh piece, covered in ice, to balance them at the bottom of the world. To watch over the lands, the Great Spirit created six beings. To Australia went Fire-God, to Asia First-Man the son of night; to Europe went Salt Woman, to Africa First-Woman the daughter of daybreak. Coyote took South America for his own, and last of all was the beloved Child of the Sun, Begochiddy, who had blue eyes and golden hair. She made North America her home, and First-Man sent her of his own children across the great ice of the North to be her people. For a time, everyone was happy, and Begochiddy taught her people the right way to live, how to care for plants, and how to give thanks; but then things started to go wrong in the other lands. Great armies rose, conquering their sister-tribes only to fall themselves in the end. Kingdoms came and went, buried by the sands of their deserts. Begochiddy heard the laments of her brothers and sisters and wept herself for their sorrow; she wept also in joy that her own people did not make cities and pound iron into weapons for slaughter but remained close to Mother Earth. One by one, her sisters and brothers faded and disappeared as man banded together in "city-states" and "countries" and they became unnecessary, until only she and Coyote remained. In their spirit-dreams, they saw that there were others like themselves called "nations", but born of blood and war and the residual magic of the land that Mother Earth left behind; these beings did not have the spark of the Great Spirit that she and her ilk possessed. And one day, Coyote came to see Begochiddy, and he was dying.

He spoke to her of the pale men from across the great waters, the war-lovers who had destroyed their family. They had come to his shores and brought the spirits of disease and death with them, and conquered his people. Begochiddy had also seen the white ones on her own lands, nearly four hundred years past, but they stayed to the frozen north and were gone just as quickly. She told her brother so, but Coyote had seen in his death-dream that they would take her lands and her people too. Begochiddy held her brother as he died, but as he faded he made her a gift of the last of his magic, that she might save her people.

Once Coyote was gone, Begochiddy left her people to sit dreaming by the shining waters of Cayuga. For a hundred years she dreamed, and her spirit traveled among the pale ones to see the truth and the future. She now knew that the ones from across the waters would not leave lands so rich as hers untouched, and that her people alone could never fight those who so loved to take what was not theirs and killed so readily. She also foresaw a great tribulation far in the future, in a time where huge metal birds ruled the skies and men spoke into tiny boxes to other men on the far side of the Earth. In that time, two "nations" would be needed for the Earth to survive, but those beings were too cold and broken in spirit to do so as they were. So Begochiddy would use the last of her magic to create her own children to be the spirit of her lands, for those children would be vital in the time to come, to heal the Two and to save the Earth. She herself would be forgotten, but her sacrifice would not be in vain. And so she gathered her power and the magic of the earth and the sky and her father the sun and formed it in her womb; on the back of a great tortoise in the center of the lake, Begochiddy gave birth to a pair of twins with her own blue eyes and golden hair. The last of the elemental spirits gathered to bestow gifts upon the children- the last of their own magic. Mother Earth gave them the strength and immovable resolve of the mountains, and the Great Spirit gave them the wind-song, that they might understand and speak all the languages of men. The last two spirits were weaker, and so could only give to one child. The spirit of the waters gave to the younger twin the power of peace, that he might calm the souls of others. The spirit of the sun gave the elder twin the power of spirit-fire, that he might inspire those around him with his courage. When the old ones had faded and gone, Begochiddy gave her sons her own spirit-force, split in two, and bound them to the land. The elder, who she named Alok Jacy, she tied to the South; the younger, Machk Wematin, she gave the North. As Begochiddy faded, she kissed her children and sent all her knowledge into their joined spirit, that they might dream dreams and see visions of the future for themselves and thus know their purpose.

For twenty-five years, Alok and Machk lived on the shores of Cayuga learning from their people and singing the songs of the land. Their songs were filled with magic, and in them they saw that their lands were vast with forests and deserts, mountains and valleys, run through with rivers and bounded by blue seas. Their strength was as great as the Earth itself, and they traveled among the people (small though they were) defeating monsters and doing great deeds. And so, their people came to call them the Hero Twins, and they were happy together.

One day the Twins felt a great calling from the sea to the East, and so sang the song of dreaming to learn what it was. When they awoke, they knew why they had been made.

"Mother said that I was made for the Golden Lion, who lives on an island where the rain rules the sky," Alok proclaimed to his brother. "She said that he is fierce and cold, and that I must bring him the warmth of the sun."

"Mother said I was made for the Wounded Eagle, a great white warrior," Machk replied shyly. "She said that he will be broken, with no home and no name, and that I must bring him the healing of the waters."

Alok grinned, and took his brother's hand. "She said I would meet the Lion before you meet the Eagle, but that we will know them by their eyes. Mine will be like the leaves in the summer, yours like the maple in fall."

"Yes," Machk agreed sadly. "But she also said that we must be parted for a long time!"

The younger twin began to cry softly, the thought of being away from his other half too much to bear. Alok wrapped his arms around Machk and held him tight.

"We will always be one spirit and one heart. Even apart, we can always see each other in our dreams." The boy smiled again, the very essence of the sunlight. "We will be strong enough. We are the Hero Twins!"

Laughing, Machk took his brother's hand and together they set out for the Great Sea to meet their destiny, singing the song their Great Mother had whispered in their hearts.

_While we think we witness_   
_We are part of the scene_   
_This never-ending story_   
_Where will it lead to?_   
_The earth is our mother_   
_She gives and she takes_   
_But she is also a part_   
_A part of the tale_   
_We're part of a story, part of a tale_   
_We're all on this journey_   
_No one is to stay_   
_Where ever it's going_   
_What is the way?_

**Present Day**

"Yeah, this is so not what I pictured when the Great Mother said we'd need to heal them."

America and Canada stood, arms folded and lips set into identical scowls, over the prone bodies of the Golden Lion and the Wounded Eagle. Empty bottles of beer and gin lay scattered over the hardwood floors along with stray pieces of clothing. The Awesome (former) nation of Prussia was sprawled on Canada's leather couch, one leg thrown over the back and one trailing onto a bearskin throw rug. He was bare-chested, pale skin bleached by the first rays of sunlight, and wore hideous yellow boxer shorts patterned with neon-colored chicks. His mouth was wide open in a strangely satisfied-looking grin, a thin line of drool trailing down to his neck. England was even worse- he was dressed only in his waiter's apron and white cuffs, the bow-tie around his neck coming undone. He was curled up with his face in America's beloved bomber jacket, vital regions dangerously close to being on display due to his widely splayed legs. Kumajiro was curled snoring into a broad armchair, surrounded by sticky maple syrup jugs with Prussia's chick settled contentedly on his head. It looked like a fraternity party gone awry. It looked like the aftermath of a bachelor party in Vegas. It looked like someone(s) getting their asses smacked down with Canada's mighty hand of doom.

"Those fucking hosers," Canada replied. "Do they do anything but drink?"

America shrugged. "Well, Gilbert also brags and makes obnoxious sex jokes, and Iggy throws temper tantrums interspersed with crying fits."

Canada raised an incredulous eyebrow at his brother. "Not helpful, Al. I so should not have to clean this up. I should have made them stay in a hotel."

"True that," America sighed. "Mattie…how are you and Gil, anyway?"

Matthew blushed impressively, fiddling with the hem of his turquoise hoodie. "We're good. Better than good. I'm really…happy, Al. We balance each other- I calm him, and he makes me brave. Even if we haven't…um…you know."

"Really?" Alfred grinned. "It's been like six months, Mattie. And it's Prussia."

"He's not like that with me, Al. I think he might actually love me."

The last was said so quietly, in total disbelief. America scowled and gripped his brother gently by the shoulders. "Don't sound like it's so unbelievable. You're amazing, Matthew, and you deserve this."

"Alfred…"

Long fingers brushed against Matthew's cheek, and he leaned into the caress. "No one can love you like I do, Mattie, but I think he'll come close. So why are you waiting?"

"I love you too, Alfred. More than anything in the world," Matt whispered. "And I don't want to sleep with him until I tell him the truth- about what we are, where we came from, and what we are to each other."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"I don't want secrets, Al," Matthew replied gently. "I think you should tell Arthur, too. I know you're scared because we've been keeping this from him for so long, but he needs to know if the two of you are going to go forward."

"Whattya mean?" America laughed nervously, yanking the strings in his own red hoodie. "I already told you I'm not gonna tell him that I…you know."

Canada snorted. "Al, a fool could see that he's been different to you these last few months, ever since we sang in the bar that night. I think that something finally made him decide to stop denying what you have together and try with you. And for the love of maple, Al, everyone but you knows that he's wanted you for centuries."

America flushed heavily, waving off his brother's statement. "I'll make you a deal, Mattie. If Arthur ever tells me he wants me, then I'll tell him about us. Like that'll happen."

"Better start practicing your story," Matt returned, convinced. His expression turned darker then. "I don't think you have long, either. Something dark is coming, Alfred. In can feel it in the air, and when I sing the dream-song."

"You too?" Alfred breathed. "This tribulation Mother warned us of, the reason we were made- I can't shake the feeling it is almost at hand. I can't tell when or from where, and the sun-song told me just two words; 'soon' and 'prepare'."

Threading his fingers with his twin's, Matthew switched almost unconsciously into Mohawk.

"They will need us, Alok. They need us already. They need us to bring them the heart-song; they have always been so alone."

"And we will be there," Alfred returned in the same tongue. "They will have all that we can give, but we must take care of each other, as well."

"Always."

Matthew cupped his brother's face with his free hand, leaning in to bring their lips gently together. Alfred submitted, opening his mouth to let his tongue brush Matthew's. The twins shuddered, tangling their arms around each other as their half-spirits joined into one once more. A tingling rush of magic flowed between them as they silently shared their hopes and fears, the heartbeats synched and vibrating in each other's ears. It was America who drew away first, Canada biting his bottom lip in retaliation for the severance of their connection. Matthew swayed towards his brother again in longing, aching for the comfort that a whole soul brought him in times of sorrow. Alfred smiled softly and, after a quick glance at their sleeping companions, complied. The twins lost themselves for a few long moments in the joy of being rejoined; it was Matthew who moved away this time. Arms still wrapped around Alfred, he sighed.

"It will be a great deal of work, making them ready to save the world," he said, wrinkling his nose.

His brother smiled, still the very essence of the sunlight. "We will be strong enough. We are the Hero Twins!"

Laughing, Matthew took Alfred's hand and together they turned to the window to watch the sun rise over Ottawa, humming the Great Mother's song with hope in their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adapted from the legends of the Iroquois, Apache, and Navajo and my own head canon. For those who don't know, the Iroquois Nation was a group of six powerful tribes of American Indians spreading out over the Finger Lakes region of New York State and up through Western New York into Ontario. I chose this group as the origins of our twins based on the geographic location (it was the place where the borders between Canada and America were closest and most blurred in pre-colonial America), the nature of the myths, and the fact that I grew up in the area and thus know quite a bit about the Iroquois. My parents have a cottage on Cayuga Lake, quite close to the Seneca reservation. In fact, I wrote the first half of this chapter sitting on the dock listening to the sounds of the water. Most tribes of the Iroquois spoke the Mohawk language, and I will include any translations necessary. It is also an interesting fact that a large number of tribes across the United States, from the East Coast to the deserts of the Southwest, had similar legends of a pair of heroic warrior twins born from one of the celestial creators.


	7. Track Seven: "It's All Been Done", by the Barenaked Ladies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of England's magic spells backfires, creating an embarrassing problem for America. Prussia and Denmark think it's pretty amusing, though. Set a couple months after Track Four.

"For the last time, magic is real, you great git."

America gave the Brit a shit-eating grin as he unconcernedly flicked the tip of the wand pointed in his face. England was so damned hilarious when he was just drunk enough to drop the stick from his ass, but not enough to rant at him. The sparkling star on the end wobbled as England's green eyes narrowed at his former charge.

"Anything you say, Iggy."

"I told you not to call me that, you twat!" England stammered, cheeks attractively pink. "And what are you two wankers laughing at?"

The weapon (?) now pointed at a pair of drunkards snickering loudly on America's couch. Denmark seemed unphased, having been at the wrong end of Norway's spells more than once. Prussia actually laughed harder, sliding off the cushions to curl up under the coffee table. If he hadn't been used to it from his own forays with the two as a part of the self-named "Awesome Trio", America would have been irritated by the lushes who invaded his New York apartment at two in the morning. Of course, with Arthur involved, the group became known (covertly, as Arthur's temper was well documented) as the "Fail Brothers". America wasn't sure how he felt about that, since his tumultuous relationship with England was considered the older man's chief failure.

"Bugger this. I'll show you bastards!" England whipped his wand around wildly and promptly dropped it on his foot. A blistering string of curses followed, along with howls of laughter from the other occupants of the room. America allowed himself a small chuckle as England snatched back up his Implement of Girly Doom upside down, the star now in his palm like a handle. The smaller man began chanting in an ominous voice, a green aura starting to appear around his form. Uh-oh, America thought, beginning to panic a little. _Shit is about to get real, he must be drunker than I thought…_

"Now, Iggy. Let's just put that do.."

"Hoata!"

A final flourish, a blinding flash of light, and a puff of sulfurous smoke left America and Prussia coughing and Denmark pulling his war-axe out of who-knows-where. Some innate sense of danger made America duck just as the ominous whistle and thud of a shot arrow sounded where his head had been.

"Handgang, hundlice!"

"Who in the what now?" grumbled Prussia, shielding his chick protectively in his cupped hands. America frowned at the familiar gruff voice speaking very unfamiliar words. He closed his eyes, trying to find the wind-song. He heard Denmark snort beside him, bringing his axe into a fighting stance.

"Been a thousand damn years since I heard Old English. What the fuck did he do, Al?"

"Got me," America replied cautiously. The smoke finally thinned to reveal an Arthur very different from the one he knew. This Arthur looked to be about ten or eleven in human years, dressed in a knee-length, forest-green woolen tunic. The garment was edged with a wide maroon and gold band with Celtic patterns and split to the waist, exposing a white linen shirt beneath. A woven leather belt encircled his tiny waist, several strings of metal charms, a heavy dagger, and a small pouch dangling from it. A full quiver was strapped across the boy's back, his bow held taut in front of him with a new arrow already notched and pointed at Denmark. England's blonde hair was even shaggier, and multiple scrapes and lacerations were apparent on his face, neck, and the small portion of his chest visible.

"It be ye again, villain! Ya not be takin' me so easy this time, ya not!" England growled, his eyes darting quickly to the side. "Nor ye servants here, nae matter who they be."

America held his hands up gently, the universal sign for surrender, pressing the head of Denmark's axe towards the floor. The language was translating in his head a little easier now; he always paid attention to Arthur, no matter what form he wore. Besides, young Arthur was _adorable_ , paranoid warrior or not.

"It's okay, England. We're not enemies. You cast some sort of spell, and changed yourself somehow." America spoke softly, the tone he used to take to calm skittish horses. "I think you may have turned yourself back into a…past form or something."

The boy didn't lower his arrow from targeting Denmark's heart, but let his eyes shift to focus on America fully for the first time. Green irises widened immeasurably, the hand steadying his bow trembling. Was he still _drunk_ , even in this form?

"Ye spake measured strange, but ye have a face like the fae," he whispered. "Be ye one o' the sidhe?"

"One of the…what? Did you just call me a fairy?" America choked, sending a glare over his shoulder at Denmark, now leaning on his axe-handle to support his laughter, and Prussia who was howling once more. "No! I'm a nation, just like you. Well, maybe not like _you_ , but…Matthias, stop laughing damn it! This Arthur seems to know you- when the hell is he from?"

Matthias grinned, folding both hands on the butt of his weapon. "Judging from the clothes and the speech, and that cute face? Probably somewhere in the 800s or 900s."

"Really? Jesus-fuck, I forget how old you geezers are sometimes. You took forever to grow up, too." America smoothed his hands through his hair, taking a careful step towards his misplaced love. "Arthur, come on. Put the bow down, Denmark isn't going to hurt you and neither are we. You're a long time from home, Iggy."

"Dinna be callin' me tha. It be Artorius, not… _Arthur_ , and it be Albion to ye! I can sense what ye be now, and I dinna care if ya look like an angel from heaven itsel', I dinna trust any of our kin!" Despite the admonition, the bow was lowered to point at the ground, though England did not loosen the arrow. "Ye say I be in the future?" The boy gave a long look around at the apartment, gasping when he saw the huge windows and their expansive view of the glittering New York skyline. Forgetting all about possible enemies, he strung his bow over his back in a quick, practiced movement and ran to the nearest window, hesitatingly touching the glass. "So high! Where be this? _When_ be this?"

America smiled at the way the awe-struck expression lit the boy's face, making his delicate features stand out all the more. _Beautiful_ , he thought. He's a drunk preteen, and still lovely. Great, now I sound like a pedo. I'm turning into France. He stood next to England, careful not to touch him or crowd his space too much, no matter how much he wanted to huggle him half to death.

"Is it just me, or is the kid hitting on Al a little?" Denmark whispered to Prussia. Alfred ignored them both.

"We're in my lands, The United States of America. You won't have heard of it yet. And the year is 2013."

Panicked eyes shot up to Alfred's face. "So far?"

Alfred smiled. It was kind of weird listening to England act like a child while he was the adult. "Mmmhmm. I think your spell backfired- you're drunk and you pointed the wand the wrong way."

England flushed heavily, stabbing an unsteady finger into Alfred's broad chest. "Listen, ye imbecile. Never would I be botchin' a spell so badly as tha'! And it be horrid rude not to give ya name, ya ken?"

Stifling a laugh at the ridiculous familiarity of that tone, Alfred gave in to temptation and ruffled Arthur's disheveled locks. "I already told you, my country is the United States of America, but I'm called America for short," he replied, ignoring the feeble struggles of his prey and just whose fault this spell was. "My human name is Alfred. Alfred F. Jones."

"Ӕlfred? Like my Great King," Arthur whispered. "Sure 'n ya seem strongly built enough to do justice to tha'." The hand he had poked Alfred with had not left the taller man's chest, but was laid palm-down over his heart, the fingers stroking the hard muscle of his pectoral gently. "And we be…allies in this time?"

America actually blushed, getting the discomfiting sensation that Denmark was correct and the kid was making some kind of a pass at him. _Precocious little bugger, but definitely on-par for our pervert ambassador._ "More than allies, Arthur, friends."

"I be havin' _friends_?"

The boy sounded disbelieving and incredulous. It was so damned sad that America once again gave up his better judgment and hugged England tightly to his chest. The smaller nation struggled for a moment, almost seeming to think he was being attacked, before settling into the warm embrace and burying his head in Alfred's chest. A quiet mumble sounded against his skin, so muffled Alfred almost missed it.

"Did I grow up strong?"

"So very strong. You held the whole world in your hands twice over," America murmured, running a hand over England's golden head. He could feel tears soaking through his shirtfront, but ignored them. _Maybe I should ask him if he knows the spell to reverse this,_ Alfred thought. He opened his mouth, but a small hiccup from the slight form in his arms caused another explosion of light and smoke, throwing the American a few feet away and soundly onto his ass. Prussia levered him up, sighing loudly.

"This shit better be over, because I am way too awesome and too drunk to sit through this magic crap."

"What devilment is this?"

"…"

"I guess not."

"Well, he's moved forward a few hundred years. That's progress, right?" Prussia mused, gawking rather obviously at Arthur's hip-length doublet and hose. The former was chocolate-colored Italian damask rich with gold and white embroidery, while the latter was a rather obnoxiously bright yellow. Short, dagged leather boots adorned his small feet, and a low-slung belt with a long dagger circled his hips. Wrist-length gloves with a wide band of gold embroidery tracing to the knuckles covered his hands, and a heavy golden necklace set with emeralds draped over his collar. "I actually remember this Arthur, too. We were allies in the Hundred Years."

"I don't," Denmark pouted. "I was kinda busy keeping my own brats in line then, I think." A distinct leer crossed his pale features. "I woulda remembered the tights."

Arthur's face turned bright red at that, a vein standing out in his forehead. His English was still a bit odd and formal, but more recognizable to Alfred now than before and he looked closer to fifteen or sixteen. He pointed a finger viciously in Denmark's direction, but addressed his words to Prussia.

"What in the devil is _that_ doing here? He's nothing to do with this war!" For the first time, Arthur stopped to truly look around at his surroundings. "Where is _here_ for that matter, where has Edward gone, and who the _devil_ is _he_?"

America started to retort angrily, not appreciating being ignored, but Prussia waved him back. "Let me handle this one, Al." He turned back to England, standing straighter than Alfred had seen him in a long time. "Just ignore Denmark for now, England."

"Hey!"

"Shut up, arschloch. To put this simply, you regressed to a past form due to a botched magic spell, and this is a nation from a land we hadn't discovered yet in the fourteenth century."

"What century is this?" Arthur replied, panic clear in his tone. America rolled his eyes. _Some things never change with time, I guess. Like his mood-swings_.

"The twenty-first," Alfred chimed in, waving in a purposefully irritating manner. "It's 2013, and you're on my lands so I'd appreciate it if you stop acting like I'm not here." Arthur started to puff up, stalking over to Alfred with clearly violent intent but was promptly derailed by Alfred leaning into his space and licking the tip of his nose. "I'm America, by the way. Or Alfred. Whichever."

"You…you…why would you do such a vulgar thing? Is this repulsive behavior acceptable in your century?" Arthur squeaked, cheeks flaming and huge eyebrows furrowing cutely in the middle of his forehead. Damn it all if America still didn't want to just snuggle the little firecracker.

"No, that's all Al," Gilbert snorted.

"Douche," Alfred responded, flipping Gilbert the bird and grinning when it was returned with interest. "Look, Arthur, this is going to wear off any minute so why don't you just…eep!"

Alfred was suddenly cut off by a small pink tongue dragging itself up the side of his cheek. Was it possible to spontaneously combust for real, because he thought he might be well on his way? "What are you doing?"

"Greeting you, since that seems to be the way of your culture," Arthur responded, still inches from Alfred's face. Now that he was so close, Alfred could see the haze of alcohol in those verdant eyes. More than that, a pair of delicate hands were sliding up his thighs to his stomach and chest, and then drifting slowly down his arms.

"Um, guys? A little help? He's still drunk!" America whined. Choked giggles and the obvious sound of a cell-phone camera shutter were the only response. "You guys are fucking dicks."

"You have a rather foul mouth for one with such a lovely face," England sighed, standing on tiptoe so his lips were a breath away from the stunned American's. "Whoever raised you should have taught you better manners."

"Oh, the irony," Gilbert wheezed, clutching his belly.

Just when America was sure that his embarrassment was bordering on the mortal variety, a soft hiccup came from the teen seemingly determined to kiss him. "Oh no, not…" A thick cloud and two feet worth of skidding across the floor on his backside later… "Ouch, damn it. He better be back to our Arthur, or I swear I'll kill him."

"I just want to know why they keep hitting on you." Matthias jibed, poking Alfred in the ribs good-naturedly. "Not that I wouldn't tap that sweet ass of yours in a heartbeat, but this is England we're talking about."

"First off- eww. I wouldn't fuck you with someone else's dick, you manwhore. Second- England is the biggest perv that ever perved, even bigger than France. I have no idea how he convinces anyone otherwise."

"Didn't anyone ever tell ye tisn't nice to talk about people behind their backs, poppet?"

"Oh, fuck. Not this one. I actually remember the tail end of this one," Alfred moaned.

"I dinna ken what ye be meanin' lovey, but ye be in a world of trouble if'n ye not be telling me how ye got me off me ship."

America began to rub his temples in frustration, but Denmark and Prussia were smarter. They took one look at the Dread Captain Kirkland, pirate extraordinaire, and fled to the kitchen with a cry of "Abandon ship!"

"The short version involves you, booze, your wand, and an epic fuckup. Now just sit your ass down until you poof out of existence, would you? I can't take much more of this," Alfred sighed.

"I dinna think ye heard me correctly, love," England snarled, drawing his cutlass. America frowned, though a wave of nostalgia threatened at the same time. He was barely out of toddlerhood during England's Golden Age of Piracy, but he remembered the ornate red brocade coat and thigh-high black boots vividly; he used to put them on and traipse around the Boston house, wielding a wooden sword that England had whittled him and using every bit of pirate lingo he managed to glean from hanging around the docks. England would catch him around the middle and threaten to make him walk the plank unless he surrendered to the dreaded bathtub. Every time Arthur had to leave, Alfred would clutch the wide black-leather belt that held the pirate's cutlass and brace of pistols and beg to go too. When he was alone, he would watch the harbor and daydream that one day he would be grown enough that he could sail the seas with Arthur, as his first mate, having grand adventures. He might have actually obsessed about it more if he'd been old enough to appreciate how tight Arthur's pants were, or the enticing flash of skin his open linen shirt afforded. _Ack. Focus!_

"Look, just chill alright?" Alfred replied, holding his hands up again to show he was unarmed. "You fucked up a 'magic spell' or whatever, and you keep changing into older versions of yourself. I'm guessing you aren't actually time travelling, just regressing since that would mess up the space-time continuum. Or something. Gods, I've been watching too much of your crappy TV, I sound like a Dr. Who episode."

"Shut it, poppet," Arthur sneered, placing the tip of the sword under Alfred's chin. "Ye talk more than a woman. Now, who are ye? A nation, to be sure, but not one I know and that's a small number."

"What year are you from?" If there was one way to piss Arthur off, it was to screw up the English language and asking a question to answer a question was just rude. He couldn't help poking him though, and he was pretty sure he could snap that cutlass blade in half before Arthur could cut his throat. Maybe. Possibly. Well, at any rate it wouldn't kill him and he was sure he could get the blood out of the rug. The pirate gritted his teeth in response, but apparently decided to humor him.

"It be 1710."

America smiled, he couldn't help it. "Then you do know me Arthur. Look very hard."

Arthur lowered his sword, sliding it back into his belt and roughly grabbing Alfred's chin with callused fingertips, removing Texas to stare into his eyes. His own widened noticeably. "No one else has eyes that shade, like the cloudless sky over an open sea. America?" he whispered.

"Yep. It's kinda weird seeing you in this getup again."

"This…is what ye became? How far into the future did I come?"

"Just over three hundred years. You know, I…"

Anything else he was going to say was cut off by a bone-cracking hug from the gruff captain, his hands travelling busily over America's form as if to document all changes from the child's body he knew. "Um, Arthur? Still kinda weird…"

"Ye…" Arthur shook his head a little. "I always wondered if ye would keep yer looks when ye grew up. I be glad to see ye did." Arthur leaned back just far enough to favor him with a smoldering gaze and licked his lips. "I'll wager I be a happy man in this time, with the likes of ye in my bed."

"What? We're not…that's not… _why would you assume that?_ "

The pirate chuckled, drawing his knuckles down America's glowing cheeks. "Now, no need to be shy poppet. Come and give us a little taste."

America tried vainly to duck, but the elder man had slipped one hand to the back of his head to tangle in his hair. The kiss was brutal and unyielding, England's wind-burned lips crashing into his own with enough force to bruise. A hot tongue slid along his lower lip, plunging inside his mouth when America gasped in surprise. The pirate seemed intent on mapping out every inch of his tongue and teeth and palate, exuding such strength that Alfred surrendered to it without thinking. Arthur must have felt his muscles relax, because he took the opportunity to thrust a leg between Alfred's own, one arm wrapping about his waist to pull their hips together. America moaned airily into England's mouth, a needy sound that would have embarrassed him if he weren't so dizzy and _hot_. The older man chuckled into his mouth, the sound vibrating down his throat, and pulled back to lave his neck and jaw. A bite to his collarbone made him rather suddenly aware that his shirt was being unbuttoned, and that he was letting Arthur freaking _ravish_ him in the middle of the living room with Prussia and Denmark right there. Taking pictures from the kitchen door if he was hearing correctly, the bastards.

"Arthur, stop it."

Another sharp bite, this time to his pulse point, before that amazing tongue smoothed over the spot in apology. "Why in the Seven Seas would I be doing that, poppet?"

"We're totally not like that and you…present you…would be so pissed and embarrassed and did I mention _pissed_ about this."

"Ah, but I finally have the answer to the question of whether ye taste as sweet as yer scent," he murmured, dragging kiss-swollen lips up to nip at his earlobe. "And ye do, pet. So very sweet."

Alfred shuddered under that erotic declaration delivered in such a husky rasp, resolve starting to slip.

"So I'll be claimin' me treasure now, poppet, and no more-hic-"

"Oh shit."

To be frank, America was getting more than a little tired of getting knocked on his ass and hit on by randy Englands who weren't his England. Well, they were but they weren't and he wanted his grumpy little tea-loving, gin-swilling, scone-burning Iggy back pronto.

"Iggy? Please tell me you're you again? Please?"

"I dunno, I liked that last one," Gilbert grinned, waving his cell-phone at Alfred. He and Denmark had finally returned from the kitchen and were now debating on who to sell the racy pictures to and how to convince them they weren't photo shopped.

"Alfred? Izzat you?"

"Oh thank the hamburger gods. This one sounds normal. Still drunk, but normal."

"Uh, think again," Denmark said gleefully, whipping out his own cell-phone this time. "This one is the best yet."

"Alfie!"

"You've gotta be kidding me," Alfred groaned, trying unsuccessfully to pry England's limbs off himself.

"Oi, you finally lost those bleeding suits. This is so much better, love," Arthur exclaimed, sliding his hands into the back pockets of Alfred's low-slung jeans. He gave his rear a firm squeeze, making America yelp a little. In a totally heroic way, of course. " _So_ much better."

"Come on, Iggy. You hate my guts, remember? Yuppie scum and whatnot?"

"Mmmm….that's only because I hate seeing you hide this body in those horrid clothes, pet."

America exhaled hard through his nose, trying desperately not to stare at England's skin-tight black leather pants, which were artfully battered and scarred and slung so low his hipbones and the sloping lines of his groin showed overtop. A heavily spiked black belt, strung with chains and pins, was threaded through the belt-loops, and a good six inches of Arthur's torso showed between it and the hem of his shirt. Said shirt could hardly be called that, ripped and slashed here and there and showing far too much and was that a nipple ring? A cuff to match the belt adorned his right wrist, but his left appeared decorated with a pair of _handcuffs_ for crying out loud, and those were a whole lot of piercings in his ears and oh look, that eyebrow ring he'd always secretly loved was there too. Arthur's already defiant hair was streaked through with blue dye, and heavy kohl outlined his eyes making them even more mesmerizing.

"Cat got your tongue, pet, or should I?"

"Holy crap, England! What the hell is with all of you trying to sleep with me?"

"What the hell is with you being such a prude about it is the better question," Denmark grumbled, phone open and clearly waiting for a juicy shot. "We all know you've been chasing that tail for decades." Prussia nodded his agreement, the jerk.

"Ja, maybe you'd be less of an obnoxious prick if you got laid."

"Thanks for all the help, assholes," America growled, only to be shoved protectively behind a rather furious England.

"What the…"

"What d'ya mean, 'all of you'? Are these fucking wankers trying to get in your knickers?" Arthur demanded. He pointed a heavily ringed finger at Denmark. Again. "You bastards can sod off and die if you even think about touching what's mine."

"Whatta ya mean, 'yours', you drunkard?" America cried, his voice starting to crack from all the strain. England turned on him with a leer, pushing his hand into America's chest to march him backwards until his shoulders hit the wall. He then slammed his palms on either side of the trapped American's head, sliding in between Alfred's bent legs to rub against the length of his body shamelessly.

"You've been mine since the moment I set eyes on you, love," Arthur drawled, lips a hairsbreadth away from Alfred's own. "You're just such a bloody idiot that you never seem to get with the program." He extended his tongue and dragged it slowly up Alfred's pulse point, the sensation made strange and so fucking _arousing_ by the hot metal of a ball piercing. "Gods, you taste good, pet. But you clearly need some _training_."

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Alfred chanted, closing his eyes tight and trying to think of the least stimulating thing he could. "Baseball, calculus, Russia naked on a cold day….baseball, calculus, Russia naked on a cold day…"

"Hell yes, a free show!" Gilbert cheered, snapping pictures like a madman. Matthias grinned broadly on his other side, settling into the couch with a beer and a bag of chips, for the love of god. _Jackass_ , Alfred thought, gritting his teeth against the feel of England's tongue piercing now flicking over his newly exposed nipple. He had to put a stop to this shit, but his knees were so damned weak and holy hell, was England intending on fucking him right in front of these two idiots? Not exactly how Alfred pictured their first real time together (he liked to pretend the painful _incident_ in the War of 1812 never happened), but he just could never really say no to Arthur anymore.

"I don't care if you bloody twats watch as long as you don't fucking touch. You might actually learn something," Arthur sneered, twisting his fingers into the hair at the nape of Alfred's neck and tugging sharply. Alfred cried out, ashamed and more than a little horny from the slight pain. _Great, I am apparently a pedo cosplay fan, a wussy submissive, and a masochist. Or maybe…there's just something about England that turns me inside out._

"Look at me, pet," the Brit commanded, running a thumb over his lips contemplatively. Hazy blue eyes met smug green, and Arthur smiled. Alfred was pretty sure he didn't care for that smile- it was the same one he got when a revenge plot against France went just right. "You're always running this big mouth off, poppet. I think it's high time I found out what else you can do with it."

_He can't be serious_ , Alfred thought worriedly. _I can't do that with a fucking audience!_ Another sharp pull on his hair and a stinging slap to the face changed his mind, Arthur's lips following after to caress the red flesh of his cheek. "Do as you're told, love."

England's hands pressed onto his shoulders then, forcing America to fold his knees or fall to the floor; he knelt in front of England hesitantly, his cheeks scarlet and his eyes cast downwards. Arthur gave him a merciless grin full of teeth and unbuckled his belt, drawing the zipper down with a harsh sound in the near-silence of the room. Just as he was about to reach into his pants, a slight "hic" sounded above his head, and Alfred nearly got whiplash as his skull met drywall.

"Thank the fucking gods," he mumbled, raising an eyebrow at the disappointed groans of the other two drunkards.

"Damn it, that was the good part," Denmark wailed, comparing photos with Prussia. "Still, sweet pics. What a little Dom that England is!"

"You fuckers are so dead," he snarled, mortified. This night really couldn't get any worse.

"Alfred?" The plaintive whine from the other side of the room caught his attention, and he was relieved to see England in the clearing fog- _his_ England, stuffy sweater vest and all. "I think…something may have gone wrong with that spell."

"You fucking think?" Alfred replied, hurrying over to support a heavily swaying Arthur. "Iggy, are you…hey!"

America found himself lurched downwards a few inches by his open collar to meet an irritated emerald gaze. It appeared England's drunk had finally worn off, and he was decidedly unhappy about his magic backfire.

"What happened? Why didn't you change?"

"Change…? God damn it, England, were you trying to regress _me_? Did it even occur to you that you could have gotten the me from the Revolution instead of my childhood?"

England actually looked sheepish at that. "What makes you think I meant to get you as a child?"

Alfred snorted derisively. "Yeah, because you _don't_ harp obsessively on how I was so much better as a kid when you drink, right?" He ran a hand through his hair and began to rebutton his shirt, but was stopped by a firm hand on his wrist.

"Why is your shirt unbuttoned, and where did _these_ come from?" Arthur asked, tracing one finger over a few spots on his neck that were kind of tender, now that Alfred thought about it.

"Whatta ya mean, 'these'?"

"I think he means the rather awesome string of love bites on your neck, fatass," Gilbert chimed in unhelpfully, causing Alfred's blush to reassert itself full force. "You're gonna have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow, or the entire G20 is gonna know you're someone's bitch."

Arthur's face went comically pale, then red, then back to white again, a vicious scowl twisting his lips. "Did one of these drunken knobs _molest_ you while I was incapacitated?"

"England, you don't remember anything?" Gilbert snorted. "You did that. Two different versions of you too, you kinky perv. The other two just hit on him, which was unawesome enough as it was."

"What the sodding hell are you talking about, git? I wouldn't…that's just…I'M NOT A PERV!"

Denmark and Prussia fell over laughing again, their beers slopping messily onto the floor. "Puh-lease," Denmark croaked. "That last you was gonna make Al blow you while we watched if he hadn't disappeared first."

"That's it; you two get the fuck out!" Alfred yelled, dragging the giggling duo to the door as his embarrassment went nuclear. Slamming the door in their obnoxious faces, America dropped his head to the wood with a distinct "thunk". He counted slowly to ten, listening to Denmark and Prussia retreating to the elevator while singing "Something About England" by the Clash at top volume. Pricks. America wasn't quite sure he wanted to turn around; maybe if he was lucky England would pass out and then forget about all this. Arthur usually dealt with extreme embarrassment of his drunken antics by feigning memory loss or simple denial. Hopefully, he'd just head for the guest room and they'd never have to talk about this again…

"Alfred, turn around and face me like a man, for heaven's sake."

Apparently Lady Luck was nothing like Lady Liberty, and hated his fucking guts. He contemplated making a break for it into the hallway, but Arthur had other ideas. He marched up and grabbed Alfred's shoulders, bodily spinning him around to meet his eyes. How he managed to look nonplussed by all this, Alfred didn't know or care. He just wanted to crawl under a rock and die rather than face a talk about how the spell mucked up Arthur's mind and he'd never see Alfred _that way_. Couldn't he just pop those moments into the spank bank in peace, and pretend that there was ever a time when England found him remotely attractive?

"Alfred, I…bugger all. I don't know what happened with that spell, but I'm not sorry."

"Come again?"

England shook his head in exasperation. "The intent of that spell was to regress you in age but keep your mind and memories intact. Obviously I was a little…off in my incantation." He winced at the word 'off', clearly not enjoying having to admit he screwed up again. "What it must have kept were my emotions," he finished softly.

Alfred blinked and gave Arthur his best vapid smile. "I don't understand." _Yeah, I do,_ he thought glumly. _All four versions of you got pissy at me, then perved on me- meaning that any deeper emotions you might have for me are secondary or nonexistent._

"Oh poppet," England sighed, "that fool's mask won't work on me. I was the one who taught you about hiding in the greasepaint and the glitter, remember? What I wanted with that silly little piece of magic was to send you back to a time when you didn't hide what you felt from me. I thought that perhaps if you were a child again that you could finally confide in me what you've been hiding."

"Hiding?" Alfred demurred, eyes skittering away from England's gaze. "What makes you think that I'm hi-"

A warm pressure descended on his lips as his denials were lost in Arthur's mouth, those slim fingers threading through his long bangs to cup his cheeks. For a long moment there was nothing but that soft, lingering kiss; then Arthur tilted his head and carefully deepened it, massaging Alfred's lips with his own and drawing the lower one wetly into his own mouth. It was a question and a request at the same time, and one Alfred could not refuse. His breath hitched, a tiny sob, before he hesitantly allowed entrance to Arthur's tongue. Alfred felt the fingers on his face spasm a little, as though they wanted nothing more than to tug his hair and press him viciously into the wood, but Arthur kept his explorations quiet and tender. He held America as though he were a fragile thing, a precious thing, and he could feel the spill of tears running down his cheeks but could not quite bring himself to be ashamed. _Maybe a true hero is one who has the courage to give his heart over fully to someone else even if he isn't sure the other's will be given in return,_ he thought, _to take that leap of faith and trust in another to catch him._

When Arthur drew back for breath, drying those silver trails with the stroke of his thumbs across high cheekbones, Alfred gathered that courage and leaped.

"I love you, Arthur. I've loved you for so damned long."

His voice was just a whisper, sounding far more like it belonged to his brother than himself, but it seemed deafening in the silence of the apartment. In the seconds that followed, made an eternity by anticipation, Alfred knew true fear for perhaps the first time in his life. And then, Arthur smiled.

Arthur had many smiles- a smug smirk, an amused twitch of the lips, an evil grin, and a self-deprecating half-smile. Rarely did he smile out of genuine happiness, and Alfred had not realized until that moment how much he had missed that look, given so freely to him as a child. Him and no one else. And he knew then that he was exactly the greedy, spoiled creature the world accused him of being because he was unbearably, unashamedly vainglorious that the cherished expression on his beloved's face seemed to be his alone.

"Oh Alfred, you absolute muppet," Arthur chuckled, tracing his index finger over the slope of his nose to linger on his lips. "I know."

Alfred choked a little at that. _He knew? How? Was I that obvious, or did Mattie tell him? Ooh, I bet it was Mattie that meddling little…wait, he didn't say he…_

"You know?" he squeaked. "That's it? _You know?_ What the hell, Iggy? I pour my freaking heart out to you and you get all condescending sage on me? And I'm so gonna kill Mattie, cause he can't keep his giant Canadian pie-hole shut about….mmmmf!"

Drawing back from America's lips with another laugh, Arthur flicked his nose sharply. "You're rambling, pet. And still a bit of a spoiled, impatient brat I must say."

"Says the man who raised me…" Alfred mumbled.

"Belt it, git." A quick bite to his reddened lower lip. "But in spite of your faults, or perhaps because of the ridiculously endearing, puppy-like way you go about them, I find I'm rather madly in love with you too, darling."

"Really?"

England smiled again, the comforting, adoring gaze he had worn when extending his hand to a tiny infant in a field of wheat so long ago.

_("Let's go home.")_

"Really."

**The Following Day**

"I told you to drink some water and take a damn aspirin, Iggy. Even a drunk of your experience isn't immune to hangovers."

"Belt it and just make the lights shut up."

"You are so gone, babe."

"Don't call me…that?"

England stopped dead at the strange look and complete silence that met his arrival in the meeting room for the G20 conference. America, predictably, ran into his back like a clumsy oaf. Pulling down his dark sunglasses, he noted idly that each member had his or her cell-phone out and was alternating glances between them and their glowing screens.

"Um…what did we miss?" America blurted, getting a little uncomfortable with the creepy vibe. "Mattie, wanna fill me in bro?"

"You hoser!" Canada replied with uncharacteristic viciousness, chucking an empty coffee mug at America's head. He ducked, barely. "You should have called me! I shouldn't have to find this out via text message from Prussia!"

"Prussia? What the hell does your boyfriend have to do with…oh. He _didn't_! Mattie, tell me he didn't! Lie if you must!" America begged, trying without success to wrest Canada's cell-phone from his grasp.

"Afraid he can't, cabrón," Mexico called, enjoying America's embarrassment to the fullest. "But I must say gracias- you won me a lot of money in the pool."

A collective groan shook the other members from their stupor, wallets being pulled out and what looked like a gambling chart flicking onto the monitors from Japan's Smartphone. Kiku efficiently called in all bets, hiding his grin demurely behind his sleeve as he ended up with a rather large sum of his own.

"What the fuck?" England growled, squinting hard at the screen. "You bloody bastards were betting on which one of us _tops?_ "

"We haven't even slept together," America whined softly. "This is character assassination."

"Shut it, you. What the hell is on those cell-phones and…Mexico said he won? He bet that I top," England said, looking again at the screen with a slight smirk flitting about his lips. "Well, at least he's perceptive. Or hates you. Perhaps both."

" _Iggy!_ "

England finally managed to snatch a phone from the table, left unattended by India as he bickered with Australia about who was more right about Arthur, just how kinky he was, and how sorry they felt for poor naïve America. It appeared to be a picture message, or rather a string of them, from the previous night.

"Oh dear. I didn't realize you got both my pirate phase and my punk phase, darling," he said quietly to his love. America just grimaced and tugged the collar of his shirt a little higher, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'pervert sex fiends' under his breath. _The poor, innocent thing,_ Arthur thought with a smug grin. _India's right; he has no idea what he's in for._

When America got distracted by an irritated Germany (who seemed rather disappointed in the lad for losing him money) and a very spooky Russia ( _"I knew little Amerika was being too pretty to top. You should definitely become one with Russia, da?"_ ), Arthur sidled up to Kiku.

"Yes, England-san?"

Coughing slightly into his hand, Arthur slipped his Japanese friend 1000 Euro. "Copies?"

Japan's face turned speculative. "If I may use the images to create a new yaoi dating-sim, then we may have an arrangement."

England weighed how pissed America would be when he found out (and he would, as he tested Japan's games) against hot, high-quality pictures of a very submissive Alfred kneeling at his feet; the deliberation took about three seconds.

"Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfred the Great was one of the best-known kings of Anglo-Saxon England, ruling from 871-899CE. It was only after this period that England was even really called that- it was Britannia to the Romans and Albion to the locals before.
> 
> "Handgang, hundlice" means, loosely translated, "Surrender, dogs" in Old English.
> 
> The fourteenth century refers to the year 1340 particularly, during the Hundred Years War. Edward refers to the king of England at that time.
> 
> The Golden Age of Piracy lasted from the 1650s to the 1730s. In the canon, England found America sometime in the 1660s, as Finland and Sweden were already fighting with the Netherlands over colonies in America but the French and English hadn't yet gotten involved. Therefore, young America would have known England in the glory of his piracy days.
> 
> I don't think I really need to say much about the 1980's and punk in the UK, right? If you were too young for it, go listen to some music from that time- especially the song "Something About England" by the Clash. Compare it to the autotuned crap that's made now, and then weep.


	8. Track Eight: "What Have You Done?", by Within Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein America has issues, Canada is protective, England is conflicted, and Prussia can't get laid. "The Incident" from the War of 1812, and its modern ramifications. Please be warned, this chapter will contain angst and explicit sexual situations including non-con and power games. If this isn't your cup of tea, wait for the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The War of 1812 was kind of a useless pissing match. England was busy with the Napoleonic Wars with France, and as such had set up some lovely trade blockades and started a policy of impressment of American sailors into the British navy (it was still a little sketchy then just who was a naturalized citizen since the US was technically only 36 years old, and Britain only recognized it formally after the Jay Treaty in 1797). This ticked off America, who declared war on Britain. Frankly, the Canadians are the only ones who really remember the damn thing, since we started invading Canada as they were still a British colony. Al refers to the sacking of York (modern Toronto) in 1813 because it was the big impetus for Canada to help Britain burn Washington DC on August 24, 1814. They were particularly miffed because the Americans burned private property instead of just government buildings, which was considered a major breech of conduct of civilized warfare. But when have we Americans ever really been civilized, Mattie?
> 
> "Tohsa satati, tanon satahonsatat. Enwaton ken shahseroten?" "Hen."- Mohawk. Roughly, "Don't (try to) talk, just listen. Can I turn on the lights?" "Yes."

**August 24, 1814**

_America woke abruptly, the pain in his chest flaring like a sunburst. A smooth weight pressed in over his eyes, leaving him in a black void…a blindfold? His arms were stretched painfully tight over his head, heavy iron shackles chafing each wrist. His knees ached from contact with a wooden floor, but when he tried to stand upright he found that each ankle had been meticulously bound to his thighs, keeping his legs bent beneath him. He was also, worryingly, quite naked. America was unsure whether it was the sick nausea in his head that made the room seem to sway or whether he was in fact on a ship, but that was not the most pressing issue. His capitol was in flames, his very heart under siege, and his own twin had brought this upon him. A twinge of guilt reminded him that he had, in fact, sacked York first and his men ignored the rules of "civilized warfare" to burn private property. In a way, he supposed Matthew was just giving as good as he got but he had never attacked his brother's very core. And England…to have him finally join this war from his battles with France just for this act scorched him worse than the fires raging in Washington._

_"Finally awake, dear brother?"_

_"Mattie?" he whispered._

_"It's Canada," Matthew replied, his voice cold as the northern snows. "You had this coming, America. You just had to drag me into your pissing contest with England, just had to get back at me for not joining your Revolution. Well, now you can live with the consequences."_

_America felt a single tear slip down his cheek past the cloth obscuring his eyes, the distance in that beloved voice perhaps the most painful blow of all. He knew full well that this retribution would cost Matthew as well, that his pain would be reflected upon his other half- he could hear the weight of it in his tone._

_Long fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head backwards to expose his throat. Matthew's voice had come from some two meters in front of him, too far for him to be the owner of that hand. And America was suddenly terrified that he knew exactly who his new tormentor was._

_"Hello, poppet," a gruff voice growled above him. "Did you miss me?"_

_The blindfold was removed abruptly, snarling in America's hair and tugging sharply at the roots. He blinked rapidly to bring England's furious face into focus; his eyes alight with emerald fire._

_"You can leave now, Canada."_

_"Yes, Britannia."_

_"Canada…!" America called, pushing what little magic he could still muster into his words as a last-ditch effort to connect with his twin. Matthew stopped at the door, shoulders tightening visibly._

_"I'm sorry, America," he whispered. "But you made this bed, and you'll have to lie in it."_

_The quiet clicking of the lock as Canada departed was as deafening as cannon fire to America's ears. He fought the urge to bow his head as the sheer immensity of England's presence pressed in on him; instead, he gathered the sun-song in his weakening heart and met England's eyes squarely with his own._

_"Defiant still, are we?" England caught America's chin in his hand, pressing the thumb painfully into his lower lip as he tipped his head back to an uncomfortable angle. "You won't be for long, pet. You…" He trailed off, his rage apparently too great for speech for a moment. "It wasn't enough for you to defy me and spit everything I ever gave you back in my face with your 'independence', but now you have the audacity to declare war upon me again! When I clearly have much more important matters with France's little despot on my hands, you dare. I thought I would ignore your little fit of pique, but your choice to involve my **loyal** colony forced my hand."_

_America snorted, tensing his wrists to try and snap his chains. England laughed, a particularly nasty sound America wasn't used to having directed at him._

_"Oh poppet," he sighed. "I know your strength better than anyone. I had these made before I left, and the destruction of the beating heart of your government has certainly assisted your bondage here." England drew a single finger down America's cheek, a lingering caress at odds with his hard words. Almost immediately, that touch was followed by a tooth-rattling slap across the face. Surprised, America cried out despite himself. "You are also not technically on your lands. We are several miles from shore by now, but don't worry dear. We shall return you, gift-wrapped, by morning. Little America has grown far too big for his breeches and it is high time he learned his place."_

_"America will do no such thing," he replied snippily, ignoring the minor twang in his jaw. England's answer was a feral grin and a left hook. America's head snapped to the side sharply and he spit a gobbet of blood onto the floorboards. Still he managed a bright, false smile for his former keeper. "Is that all you've got, old man?"_

_"You won't be so flippant when I'm done with you, poppet. You've caused me a world of irritation and you deserve a comeuppance," England replied easily, walking a slow circle around him. "I indulged you for so long; I suppose I am partly to blame for your character flaws." A hand dragged across his shoulders, the callused fingertips dipping down to ghost over his shoulder blades, and America suppressed a shudder with difficulty. He had dreamed of England touching him in such a way, but his stomach roiled at the utter wrongness of the situation under which that touch was granted. "So long I avoided this, out of some misplaced desire not to hurt you. If I had just claimed you properly as I ought to have, none of this ridiculous rebelliousness would have come about at all. Well, better late than never, love."_

_America shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, England, but you can go fuck yourself."_

_A dry chuckle sounded directly behind him, England apparently having knelt down to America's level. A rustling sound followed, making America tense. What the hell was England even doing back there?_

_"Close, poppet. Very close."_

_His eyes widened as roughened hands gripped his bare hips with enough force to bruise. "You can't…you wouldn't…"_

_A hard thrust of England's hips proved that he could and he would. A hoarse scream ripped its way out of America's throat, tears spilling unchecked down his cheeks as he desperately tried to move away. His binds gave no quarter and neither did his captor; England's heavy breathing and a deep growl sounding in America's ear in a horrible parody of intimacy. During his Revolution, America had been shot, stabbed with a bayonet, and even burned, yet nothing had hurt as badly as this. The agony flaring up his spine seemed to take a hold of his very bones and settle there, and America could feel blood starting to slip from his abused entrance. So, apparently, could England._

_"Well, well," he panted, clamping his teeth cruelly on America's earlobe. "It appears your formidable reputation is completely fabricated. Your pathetic sobs, your blood, your…" a long pause and a tongue dragged slowly up his pulse point, "near painful tightness. You are actually a virgin still, aren't you poppet?" England chuckled again, thrusting deeply enough to drive America's breath from his lungs. "Or were, rather. And at your age? How absurdly sweet."_

_Choked animal sounds escaped America's throat as England set a punishing pace, his passage finally stretching around the invading length. He struggled for his usual swagger, for anger, for courage. It would not come- this was England, his beloved England hurting him. If it had been anyone else, America could have drawn on rage for strength, shouted his defiance to the very stars. But he had been made for this man, had loved him since he was a child. America had hoped that one day England would be able to understand why America had to leave his side, would forgive him and bestow that beautiful smile on him once again. He had even cherished a dream that England would love him once more, this time as a man and not a child or a brother; would hold him in his deceptively delicate arms, take him to his bed, and make love to him. The crushing reality of this grotesque mockery of everything he had imagined sapped what little remained of his strength and spirit._

_"Why…this? How could you…"_

_England tightened his grip on America's shaking body, wrapping one arm around his waist to cup his limp genitals. "You're so damned naïve, America. This is how nations conquer, pet. This is how colonies are truly claimed, how position is reinforced." Molding his chest more closely to America's back, England's hips gentled, rolling shallowly as his knees levered under America's own to lift him slightly. The new angle allowed England's member to strike something inside of America that made stars flash in front of his eyes, momentarily dulling the pain._

_"What are you…?"_

_England's tongue ran around the shell of America's ear, making the younger nation shiver. His long fingers coaxed America's own length to hardness and he let out a strangled gasp despite his best efforts._

_"With most nations, the pain and the humiliation are enough, but you have an abnormal tolerance for the former and no shame to cause the latter. So the best way to put you in your place is not just to take you against your will, but to make you enjoy it; to make you cry out for me and beg your own captor for your release." England rasped his teeth over the join between America's neck and shoulder, drawing a heavy breath to capture his scent. He threaded his fingers in America's hair with his left hand, wrenching his furiously blushing face to England's own. Horrified cerulean eyes met pitiless jade. "I'm going to make you moan like a whore and come from your own rape, and then I'm going to make you surrender this war. And there isn't a thing you can do about it."_

_"Won't…" America whispered. England simply smirked in response, stroking the cock in his hand in earnest now and twisting his fingers at the tip. America closed his eyes tightly, almost believing he could shut out the end of the world if he tried hard enough. Digging his chin into America's shoulder, England began to batter his prostate mercilessly. America felt the disgust and horror rising into his throat…and reluctant arousal. He twisted his body weakly to try and avoid that wretchedly lovely hand working him to the breaking point, but to no avail._

_"En..England…"_

_"Ah, that's it, America," England breathed. "Say my name, beg me. Surrender and capitulate this war and I'll give you what you need."_

_"Fuck…you," America replied, gasping. "Oh, Gods!" A harsh suck to the nape of his neck, combined with a thrust to that spot and a firm pressing of fingers to the base of his member nearly undid him. "Stop this…stop it damn you!"_

_"Don't be foolish. I haven't gotten what I want yet, darling. And you should know that a pirate always gets what he came for."_

_America fell into a sort of daze after that, descending into a mirror realm where time had no meaning; their coupling could have lasted for minutes or hours for all he knew before England's employment of all his considerable experience had America close to throwing pride to the winds and begging. The pain was still there, but buried underneath a tight coil of ecstasy welling up from his groin into his stomach. He shook his head slightly in defiance of a fate he could not forestall, biting his lip so hard that rivulets of hot blood dripped down over his chin. England lapped them up greedily, dragging his tongue from America's jaw to his neck and nipping sharply to mark his golden skin. The elder's other hand had shifted from his hip to his balls now, cupping them and rolling them between his fingers in time with his strokes. America tried to stop the whimper from escaping, he truly did. "Pl…please…hah."_

_England clamped his fingers firmly around the base of the younger nation's erection, cruelly cutting off any hope of climax. "I told you what you need to do for that, love. Say my name, say you surrender. End this ridiculous war," he coaxed, his lips softly tracing America's pulse as his back arched. "You aren't really strong enough for independence dear- you're not ruthless enough. Why not be mine again? Just say the words, and you can come home."_

_"I…can't-hah!...you…ah!...know that."_

_"You can and you will poppet. I know that you miss those days with me; that you long for the time when you did not have to make so many terrible decisions. Surrender and you can leave it all behind and come home." England slipped his fingers down the jaw beneath him, turning America's face back to his own. He breathed gently over America's lips, the promise of a kiss. "Say you will and you can come."_

_Those huge eyes, the color of the deep forests of the nation's lands, told a different story than his words. There was rage beneath the lust in those eyes, and America knew that England would never do any such thing. If America capitulated, England would break him just for the sake of seeing him shattered. The smirk threatening on those reddened lips finished the tale; if America yielded, England would make of him a fine trophy after his punishment. He would be the elder nation's prize dog, leashed and brought to heel and trotted out to show the world exactly what happened to those that dared cross Mighty Britannia._

_A long silence, filled only with their harsh breaths and the sounds of flesh meeting flesh. Then, America smiled…and spat in England's face._

_"I'd rather take a cannonball to the face, old man."_

_The hand around his cock squeezed so painfully that America's vision immediately blurred from the onslaught of tears. "You'll regret that, America. And believe you me, that cannonball will seem a mercy after I am through with you."_

_The rest of the night was lost in a sea of agony and screams._

.

**November 24, 2011; 2:30a.m.**

America woke abruptly in a cold sweat, crying out in a hoarse voice and clutching the blankets so hard they ripped.

"Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god," he chanted, eyes blind and body trembling like a leaf. A tentative hand on his elbow made him start in panic, hurling himself from the covers to cower in the corner of the room. "No, please. Stop. Just stop. Gods, make it stop!"

"America. America!"

The voice…that was the voice of the one who hurt him. He wouldn't believe that false concern as it called his name, no. He knew-oh, how he knew- that sweet tone came just before the lash. America brought his hands up to cover his face, curling into as small of a ball as a six foot man could.

"America! It's me! It's Arthur, love!" The voice was pleading now, but he wouldn't be fooled. Smiles hide knives with him, they always had. "God and the Grail…ALFRED!"

A crashing sound, a door thrown open. The pressure of another nation…no, two. But one was himself, one he could trust, one would save him now even if he had turned away before. He had to believe that.

"Alfie, it's Mattie. It's Mattie, honey, and I'm right here." Warm arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a strong embrace. His head rested in the other's neck, that familiar scent enfolding him and letting him know he was safe, safe, safe. Clean snow and crisp leaves and a hint of maple syrup- his twin, his heart, his Matthew. "Shhh, it's all right now. Tohsa satati, tanon satahonsatat. Enwaton ken shahseroten?"

The smooth, soothing rhythm of their language washed over him, relaxing his tense muscles. Machk was here, and Machk was the healing waters. He would let no harm come to Alok today. "Hen."

"Gilbert, could you flip the light switch please?"

"Ja, vögelchen."

Soft white light flooded the room, though Alfred could see little of it from where he was buried in Matthew's arms. "Come on, Al. It's okay. It's okay. Come back now. You aren't there anymore, that time is gone. Come back, sweetheart."

Alfred breathed deeply, gathering strength from the closeness of his twin, and slowly raised his head. He was in the master bedroom of his Boston house, huddled under the bay window in nothing but a pair of sweat-soaked boxer shorts. The bedclothes were torn jaggedly and lay askew, and he had exploded at least one pillow in his blind panic judging from the blanket of snowy feathers on the floor. Prussia leaned on the doorframe wearing a hideous pair of orange plaid pajama bottoms, looking rather disconcerted.

"Alfred, love?"

_Oh gods. England. I never wanted him to see me like this-I don't know if I can tell him about what that incident did to me._ Arthur stood a few feet away from the brothers, his arms folded protectively around his middle and somehow managing to look offended and concerned at the same time. America wasn't even sure how that was possible. He tried to speak, but his voice just wouldn't come. ( _Scream for me, love, and then we'll see what else that big mouth is good for._ ) Oh gods, now the shaking was starting again and he just couldn't face Arthur now he just couldn't and…

"I've got this, Arthur." Canada's voice was ice now not snow, and as forbidding as a glacier's edge. "Why don't you go downstairs with Gilbert and make some tea and some cocoa? He won't be going back to sleep after this, and he'll need it."

"Don't be ridiculous, Matthew, I can certainly take care of my own…my…I can stay."

If America weren't still so jumpy at the very sound of Arthur's voice, he would have found it adorable that the Brit still couldn't quite come up with a word for what they are now. But still… ( _Not so heroic now, are you, poppet?_ )

"No you can't. If he's this bad, you're a part of the problem in the first place. Go downstairs, and I'll be down soon," Matthew said bluntly. Alfred flinched at the harsh words and the pointed silence following them, but stayed in his brother's arms. Soon after, he heard two sets of steps retreating from the room, one quite forceful.

"Sheesh, throw an unawesome tantrum, why don't you?"

"Belt it, you tosser."

As soon as the voices were out of earshot, Alfred let loose the knot in his chest and began to cry. Matthew cradled his twin to his chest, rocking them gently back and forth.

"I know, Alfie. It's okay, let it out." Long fingers stroked through America's hair as he sobbed, smoothing over his nape and petting his shoulders. "Was it the Revolution again?"

America shook his head, trying to force his voice past the lump in his throat. "After Washington fell. 1814."

"Oh, Alfred," Matthew sighed. "It's because you are together now, isn't it? You're afraid of doing any more than kissing him because of…well, that. You two have to talk about that incident some time, Al. He has a right to know how you feel about it, and how it has affected your, erm, intimate life ever since. And you have a right to tell him off for it, quite frankly."

America started to shake his head again, but Canada wasn't about to have any of it. He grabbed America's chin in between his thumb and forefinger and tilted his face up, sky blue eyes meeting violet. A light kiss was laid on his lips to soften the hard words to follow. "Yes. Tonight, Alfred. He's defensive and embarrassed right now, but also terribly worried about you. You don't have to forgive him for it, but you do have to discuss it. Perhaps you can finally get the closure you need to move past this."

Canada's stern countenance brooked no objections. There was just no dealing with him when he got stubborn about something like this, America mused.

"I don't have to do it completely sober, do I?"

"No alcohol. The last thing you need is Arthur getting drunk too- it'll be a horrid shouting match and someone is going to end up with a black eye."

"How about some of your 'herbal supplements'?"

Matthew gave him a look that was both chagrined and incredulous. "You want to get _high_ first? Are you insane?"

Shoving down his brain's first reaction ( _I'm kinda afraid I might be_ ), Alfred settled for holding his forefinger and thumb up an inch or so apart. Matthew rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I think it's a little more than that, eh?"

.

.

Prussia watched in amusement as England tried to make tea, slamming the old-fashioned tea kettle onto the cast iron grates of the stove with a jarring clang. He wasn't too worried about America; he was a tough kid and anyway Prussia's little bird could heal anyone, of that he was sure. Whatever the brat's epic nightmare had been about, it involved England and the fussy drunk obviously knew it.

"Try not to kill the kettle, arschloch. Matthew will have my ass."

"Belt it." Arthur's hard voice wasn't quite enough to distract Gilbert from his shaking hands.

"So what the fuck was that all about, anyway?"

Arthur frowned deeply, dragging the tea canisters from the cupboard along with a monstrous tin of cocoa. "Buggered if I know. Your brat _banished_ me from comforting my own lover."

"You got banished cause that nightmare was about you, so don't get your panties in a twist with me," Gilbert snorted. "And is he really your lover if you aren't getting laid?"

England dropped the spoons he was unearthing with a clatter, turning an almost comical shade of red. "I haven't the foggiest idea of what you mean."

"Matthew tells me everything, you know," Prussia bragged, propping his feet up on one of the kitchen island's barstools. "I know you two aren't fucking yet." A long sigh followed. "Not that we are either, damn it. I blame your brat."

"How is your hilarious inability to get into Matthew's knickers after eight months somehow Alfred's fault?"

Gilbert dragged his hands over his scalp, blowing an errant lock of frosty hair out of his eyes. "They're up to something, the two of them. I get the feeling Matthew is waiting around for Al to decide to sleep with you. They had some long-ass argument about when the 'right time' was and how they were 'going to explain it all' and whether or not we'd be pissed. Whatever all that means. They thought I was too drunk to pay attention, but I sneaked to the bathroom last night and listened through the air vent to their little chat in the basement."

"Pissed about what? What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Arthur demanded, hands on his hips. The menacing effect was somewhat ruined by the stuffy green oxford pajamas the elder nation wore. Gilbert thought it was rather like watching a miffed cat, with Arthur's shoulders hunched and his eyebrows messier than usual.

"I told you I don't fucking know," he snapped. "All I got from my reconnaissance-"

"Eavesdropping."

" _Reconnaissance_ …was that both of them need to tell us something important, something they feel like they have to tell us before sleeping with us. Something they think will make us angry. My bet is that they think we don't know they're doing each other."

Hey, it was kind of funny to watch Arthur choke on his tongue like that. "They are most certainly not _doing each other_. They're twins! And not the type to have more than one lover at a time. And twins!"

"We're not human, dipshit," Prussia retorted. "And I'll bet you a hundred Euros they are."

"You're on," England replied. "There's no bloody way those two naïve twats are shagging. You've just gone spare from frustration."

"If you're implying I'm nuts, get fucked. I'm not frustrated. My vögelchen's worth the wait."

England snorted, turning back to the cupboards to hunt for teacups and mugs. A soft cough at the door actually managed to make Prussia blush a bit. Canada stood in the doorway, adorable in his oversized hockey jersey (and nothing else, the little tease), with a tiny smile on his angelic face.

"I'm glad you think so, Gilbert," he whispered, crossing the room to place a light kiss on his forehead. He reached out and snagged England's sleeve as he tried to rush back upstairs. "Not yet. Al needs a few minutes to get himself collected, and then you can go up. Arthur- that night terror was about 1814. You two have to talk about this, or you'll fall apart before you even start."

Prussia winced slightly at the steel in his lover's tone. Matthew didn't say much, but when he did it always cut to the quick. Arthur went white at the younger man's words, curling his fingers into fists.

"That can't possibly still be affecting him. He is practically incapable of holding grudges."

"It's not about a grudge, you hoser," Matthew said shortly, his clipped tone promising Very Bad Things. Gilbert really needed a beer to deal with this. "You hurt him, more deeply than anyone ever has. It stayed with him, Arthur; it's affected more than you realize. You _broke_ him that night, and you did it on purpose."

This was getting really interesting, Gilbert mused. England looked like he wanted to cry and tell Canada to fuck himself all at the same time.

"Then he is a naïve child. It happens to every nation- most of us when we are much younger and more vulnerable than that great git was. It was how things were done; it's something I was supposed to do when he was still my colony but didn't because I cared about the idiot. I was supposed to take care of you, too, but you were too alike."

Matthew cast Gilbert a side glance, full of pain. "You…?"

"If we're talking about what I think we are, then yes. _Willkomen in Europa,_ Matthew. In my case, it was Turkey. I wasn't Prussia then, but the order of the Teutonic Knights. A priest," he said gently. "And a child. In Europe, in Asia, in the rest of the world, liebliche- we are conquered when we are small and weak, and that is how it is done. How it has always been done."

"And you?" Matthew turned to Arthur. "It happened to you?"

England laughed, a bitter sound. "Over and over again. First Rome, then France and Denmark, sometimes Scotland. It's part of the reason I grew slower than most of you- perpetual conquest. I never slept with someone of my own volition until I was over a thousand years old."

"And yet, you saw fit to visit the same on Alfred. On the one person who really loved you- all because you were angry that he left." Matthew's voice was icy cold, the subdued rage hanging in the air like mist.

"Don't you presume to judge me, child. All of us have done the same, including your lover here. And you walked out of that room and left him with me."

"I didn't know," Matthew whispered, distress crossing his brow. Gilbert took his hand gently, brushing his thumb over the knuckles. "I didn't know that you were going to do…that."

"And what would you have done if you had?" Arthur demanded, brushing past Matthew to storm out of the kitchen and back upstairs to the bedroom.

Matthew collapsed on the stool next to his lover, cradling his head in his hands. "I don't know. And that's my cross to bear."

Prussia said nothing for once, simply threaded his fingers through Canada's hair and petted him soothingly. Still carrying his twin's pain in his heart, Matthew began to cry.

.

.

England muttered to himself angrily up all three flights of stairs to the master bedroom at Canada's presumption. Nations weren't human, and yet the twins seemed to constantly judge the others based on human moral standards. They were strange, really. Unlike any other nation; they didn't think the same, operate the same, they didn't even _move_ the same. There was an odd, ethereal sort of immensity about the brothers that tended to disconcert other countries, even those like England and France (thank the fae that tosser had to catch a flight shortly after dinner) that knew them best. Only Prussia seemed unaffected, almost seeming to revel in the weirdness that was the North America boys. Then again, Gilbert was a bleeding oddity all by himself- a nation that was no nation, with no land and no people, and yet still alive and kicking. The three of them together almost made Arthur feel…mundane, and he didn't much care for it.

The bedroom door was still open a crack, though the lights were now out again. England slipped quietly into the room, now illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the bay window and the glowing red cherry of the cylinder at Alfred's lips. His lover was curled in the window seat, a dark red hoodie thrown over his shoulders carelessly to ward off the chill of the partially open window. Silver smoke furled around America's blond head in the slight breeze, the normally golden hue of his hair made ashen in the low light.

"I thought you quit smoking in the Eighties."

Alfred chuckled slightly, though the sound was more brittle than Arthur would have liked. He took a long drag, inhaling deeply before answering.

"I quit smoking _cigarettes_ in the Eighties, unless I'm plastered or in a war zone."

"Is this a war zone then, love?" he asked, his voice creeping into defensive tones before he could stop himself. Alfred turned to him then, managing a half-grin despite the fact that his lovely face was clearly tear-stained and puffy.

"It's not a cigarette."

England choked at that, finally getting close enough to America to catch the sweetish scent in the air. "You…you're getting bloody knackered? Bloody hell, now Canada's a bad influence on _you_. You gits need to be separated."

"Come off it, Iggy," Alfred responded, an irritated scowl twisting his lips. "You spent most of the Sixties and Seventies stoned off your gourd, and most of the Eighties drunker than usual and hyped on speed. I did too much coke in my yuppie days. This stuff can't really do much of anything to us, and we all have phases. At least I'm not dropping X anymore." He snorted then. "Besides, pot is the Diet Coke of drugs, I have the metabolism of a hummingbird on crack, Mattie always has the good stuff on him courtesy of Holland, and I needed something to calm down."

Arthur smiled in spite of himself. "Fair enough, I suppose." He sat in the opposite end of the window seat, his legs tangling with America's in the center. He leaned up and plucked the joint from America's long fingers, taking a slow hit himself before passing it back. They could both do with calm right now, considering.

"Poacher."

"Greedy." Arthur exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "Matthew gave me a lecture. Doesn't seem too horribly long ago that this was all in reverse. The two of you drew trouble like honey draws flies."

Alfred shrugged philosophically, his sapphire gaze fixed on the stars. "Wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a family spat." He looked so much younger without his glasses, Arthur mused. So vulnerable and pensive, and he was the one who had put that expression on that beloved face.

"Alfred…do you know why I had a larger Empire than any other nation in history, even Rome? Why you were the only one of my colonies able to leave me so easily?"

"You call that easy?" Alfred said quietly, looking surprised at the abrupt broach of the topic.

"More so than any of the others, by far. It's because of my magic, love. Every nation with colonies made a point to reinforce status and dominion through sex; we may not be able to reproduce, but our magical essence can be found in our vital fluids," he said, tactfully ignoring the wrinkling of Alfred's nose and slight noise of disgust he made. "With other nations, the effect was mostly psychological. I, however, still knew the old spells necessary to use that magical essence to form a near-unbreakable bond between colony and master. You and your brother are the only ones I did not bind."

"Why?" Alfred responded, his voice harsh and rasping. "Wasn't I worth that much effort?"

"Oh, love. You've got it all backwards. I had many colonies I took by force, like Canada, India, or Seychelles. I had some that I created from nothing, like Australia, Hong Kong, and Sealand. You were the only anomaly- you _chose_ me," Arthur replied passionately. "You were the only one who had ever chosen me in all my long life, Alfred. The only one who ever wanted me, the only one who ever loved me. You were still so small, and I couldn't claim you without hurting you." He reached out a hand to cup America's chin, brushing his thumb rhythmically along his jaw line. "I couldn't do that to you. Not you."

"You didn't have any problem hurting me later on," America snapped, leaning back against the window and out of England's grasp.

"I was angry, poppet. I know that's no excuse, but you know better than anyone what I am. I am a selfish, greedy old man who never lets anyone cross him without taking revenge. I loved you as no one before, favored you as no one before, but I was still Britannia and I could not allow you to make a fool of me twice in the eyes of the world."

America frowned darkly, inhaling noisily from his joint and letting the smoke curl out from his nostrils like a dragon. "You couldn't have just kicked my ass, Arthur? I knew how to handle an ass-kicking."

"That is precisely why I didn't do that. Honestly, America, use your head," Arthur said nastily. He sighed then- getting defensive was no way to clear the air between them. "You know…I had actually planned to claim you when I came back and you were near grown. I was supposed to; I had orders from George to do so- though I had orders from every king since we had met on that score. Do you remember the day I brought you your first suit?"

"Yes," America replied, shifting uneasily in his seat. "You gave me a lecture and said I looked like a pauper."

"You did," England sniffed. "Do you also remember that I had you put that suit on, took you to a real dinner at the Royale Hotel, and then to a salon?"

"Yeah. I remember thinking that it was the first time you ever treated me like I wasn't just a little kid. I…" America broke off, coloring brightly and turning towards the window. "It was all I ever wanted from you, besides you just being around."

England slipped his hand into the one America had propped on his knee, threading their fingers together. "I meant to perform the spell that night. I had everything set up, the magic circle was cast beneath my bed, and you were old enough and _grown_ enough that I wouldn't hurt you; at least, no more than is always part of such things. But then when we went to retire for the evening, you hugged me at the top of the stairs. Do you remember what you said?"

America shook his head, not in denial but embarrassment, turning his face downwards to stare at their linked hands. Arthur smiled, and barreled on.

"You said 'Thank you, Arthur. I love you- I swear I really love you.' And that was that- I couldn't go through with it. You trusted me, and I got greedy again." A wry grin. "I wanted you to choose me once more. I wanted you to come to my bed out of a true desire to, not out of obligation or because you were too naïve to understand. I thought I could give you another decade or two to mature, and then tell you of my plans for you, for us. I didn't know I'd only have three more years before you were gone."

"Arthur…"

"No, Alfred, let me finish. I have never told you of those plans, because their collapse broke me for well over a century. You need to know that I…broke you then because you had broken me first," Arthur said shakily, tightening his grip on his young lover's hand. "You were to be given a new status among my colonies once you were bound, George had already agreed to my badgering on that account. You were to receive representation in our government, though on a limited basis to start. You would have been 'British Colonial America' no longer, but the 'American States of Britain', with powers only second to mine. Do you understand what I am trying to say? You were to have been my…consort, Alfred."

"Consort?" America whispered, twisting his lips and furrowing his brow oddly. Clearly the lad was trying to puzzle out what he meant. He rather hoped the boy wouldn't make him come right out and say it. "Does that mean…were you gonna _marry_ me, Arthur?"

Alfred's tone was incredulous, and with good reason Arthur supposed. Britain was more powerful than any nation in the world then, there was no reason to tie himself so firmly to a fledgling nation- save one.

"Yes, poppet. That is exactly what I mean. Do you understand now why I was so angry for so long?"

His America finally raised those stunning summer eyes to his, his cheeks clearly crimson even in the low light. "I think I do. That doesn't mean I'm just gonna get over it like it was nothing though, Iggy."

"I know that," Arthur said gently, releasing Alfred's hand in favor of leaning in to run his fingers through that golden hair. "I certainly didn't get over you leaving so easily, even two centuries later. But with it all in the open, perhaps those nightmares will go away. And perhaps we can deal with it together, rather than you running to Matthew every time, hmm?"

"Jealous much?" Alfred quipped, a small smile tipping up the corners of those full lips. "Mattie's been helping me deal with this since the 1850s. Speaking of which, why didn't you bind him?"

"Canada? Because he looked too much like you. It would have been a bit creepy, love."

Alfred snorted lightly, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Says the dude who was planning to marry a kid. Can you say 'Pedo Bear'?"

"Belt it, you great git!" Arthur choked. "You make me sound like the Frog!"

"If the windowless black van fits…"

A smack to the head subdued the American, who subsided into quiet chuckles. "I'm kinda surprised ol' Francey Pants never did any of that to Mattie. He's lucky, you know. He might be the only country who got to sleep with someone he chose for his first time."

"I'm rather surprised at Francis on that score myself," Arthur muttered. "Did he choose a human, then? I've never heard another nation speak of Matthew that way, and we have a tendency to lack subtlety and discretion when we shag each other."

"A human?" Alfred sounded puzzled. "Neither of us has ever done that stuff with humans."

"You can't be serious," Arthur replied, jaw agape. "We all do that at least occasionally. Some more than others-Francis- of course."

"Really," the younger nation laughed. "Geez, Arthur, I thought you knew. I thought _everyone_ knew that Mattie and I…that we…well…"

England felt the vein in his forehead start to throb as America trailed off nervously. "Are you trying to tell me that you are actually shagging your brother? That ridiculous drunkard downstairs said so, but I didn't believe him. Not your dear, sweet brother."

"Hey! My 'dear, sweet brother' is – how did Kiku put it, again? I don't remember, but it's some word that basically sums up the 'it's always the quiet ones' philosophy," Alfred complained. "And it's not really like that- Mattie and I, it's not about sex, and it's not a romantic relationship or anything. When we're hurting, or depressed, or weak, we can reconnect that way and sort of heal each other, because we're twins. Mattie's first time was actually when he tried to help me get over this mess way back when."

"He had sex with you to help you get over someone forcing sex on you," Arthur deadpanned. "Yes, that is brilliantly masterful."

"Don't be like that," America whined, drawing England forwards so that he sat astride the younger man's lap. "You've slept with like 90 percent of the nations on Earth plus a few thousand humans, and you don't hear me bitchin'. We haven't done anything like that since he started dating Gilbo, because we wanted to try and explain it to you guys first…among other things."

"God and the Grail, I'm not sure I can handle much more."

"It's not the right time or place for that conversation, anyway. Soon, though. Actually," America trailed off, looking like he had just had an epiphany. "Iggy, can you come up a bit early for Christmas this year? Anytime before the 21st would be great, and then we could _show_ you instead!"

"Show me? What on Earth are you talking about, you daft sod?"

"Please, Arthur? Look, Mattie and I have some very important things to talk to you and Gilbert about, and the Solstice would be the perfect time. Just…say you'll bear with me until then. Please."

Arthur lifted his hands to cup Alfred's cheeks between them, staring into his eyes. He seemed so much younger without Texas framing those enormous pools of ocean-blue, so much like his little America from so long ago. He sighed again. He never could resist the Pathetic Look of the Kicked Puppy; it was why he got that tattoo of a six-string on his ass in the Eighties, why Matthew sported a similar maple-leaf (America, unsurprisingly, got a tri-colored star), and why Kiku had paid for last year's Christmas party. _That look and those eyes should be classified as Weapons of Mass Persuasion._

"Does this have anything to do with why you will barely let me snog you without panicking?"

"Err….maybe. And I don't panic- I express my dismay in an exuberantly heroic fashion. Seriously, Arthur, I'm sure you can manage to keep it in your pants for another month."

"Keep phrasing it like that and I could keep it for quite a while longer, thank you very much," Arthur sniffed, slipping off America's lap to retreat to the bed. "You've had a long night. Just come to bed, love. I will check my schedule when I get home and see if I can free up that time for you. I may even be able to stay until after New Year's this time, if the wankers in London can keep from rioting that long."

"Awesome," Alfred said around a yawn, throwing himself onto the mattress with a bounce. He managed to drag himself under the covers amidst Arthur's complaints, snuggling into the elder's arms. He drew his own around Arthur's waist, tangling their legs together and resting his lips at the base of his throat. "Love you, Iggy," he murmured into his skin, the warm breaths raising goose bumps the length of Arthur's neck. "I really, really do. I may still have some issues to get through, but I swear I'll try 'cause that's what heroes do."

_Then again, maybe a month will be harder than I thought, Arthur mused to himself. If the lad doesn't stop being so adorably lovable and submissive, he's going to get shagged through the mattress before that whether he likes it or not._

"I love you too, Alfred," he replied gently, running his hands over the soft skin and lean muscles of his lover's arms. "Go to sleep now, poppet. I'll be here to guard you."

They simply lay there in the moonlight for a few long minutes, the only sound the gentling sigh of Alfred's slow breathing. Then America butted his head up under England's chin in sleepy affection.

"Hey, Iggy? If you marry me, who gets to wear the dress?"

"I said go to sleep, idiot!"


	9. Track Nine: "Secrets" by One Republic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and Canada celebrate the Solstice, England and Prussia learn who their lovers really are…and one couple finally gets lucky.

**_December 21, 2011: 10:30pm_ **

England was already bitching, and they'd only picked him up from the airport fifteen minutes ago- about the delays, about the food on the plane, about Alfred being careless with his expensive Burberry luggage. Matthew knew that the situation in Europe was a little tenuous right now, as England had been the only European nation to forgo signing the financial treaty the EU put out a few weeks ago, but that didn't mean Arthur had to take out his recent shunning on them. Alfred appeared to be wilting under the heavy criticism of everything from his driving ( _You great bloody git, there's three inches of snow on the ground-slow down!_ ) to his choice of airports ( _Rochester, Alfred? Why the hell am I in Western bloody New York in the winter? I had to lay over in LaGuardia!_ ). He cringed inwardly as his twin slouched in the driver's seat of the Land Rover, shoulders hunching protectively. This didn't bode well for their ability to share life-altering secrets with one another. Matthew, quite frankly, wasn't sure whether it was time for Alfred and Arthur at all; they'd only been together for a little over a month, and Al had decided on this all the way back on Thanksgiving.

_"Al, are you sure you want to tell him already? I mean, this is pretty new…" Matthew asked carefully, avoiding his brother's eyes._

_"I'm sure, Mattie," Alfred replied evenly. "I know we've only been **together** together for a few weeks, but Arthur and I? We've been centuries coming, Matt, and you know that. I want him to know all of me; all of us both. I want him to know what you are to me, and what we are together, before we get too much further. If he can't handle how we are together, then we're not going to work out."_

_"Not going to…! Alfred- you were **made** for Arthur! You can't just say that you'll give him up."_

_"If he makes it about you or him you're damned right I will. You were here first, Matthew; you were the one who has always been with me, who has always loved me, who shares a piece of my soul for crying out loud. If Arthur makes me choose, as much as I love that stubborn bastard I'll choose you every time."_

_Matthew tried to stop his tears, he truly did. Alfred didn't seem to care that he failed, folding him in his strong arms and stroking his hair. "Every time, Mattie. Always."_

Matthew frowned as he stared out the rear window at the swirling flakes of snow falling gently outside the vehicle. Maple, he hoped Arthur would understand. He couldn't bear the thought of Alfred's pain if he had to give Arthur up after finally getting what he had wanted all these years. Of course, he also thought Alfred was being a bit paranoid about Arthur's reaction; the European nations were a hot mess of entanglements, perversion, and rampant character flaws. To judge Matthew and Alfred for being…what they were would be a bit hypocritical considering England's own tumultuous ("slutty", as Alfred had bluntly called it) history.

"Mein Gott, quit your bitching, arschloch. You're harshing my awesome vibe and giving my little bird a headache," Gilbert groaned, leaning back dramatically in the seat to plop his head on Matthew's lap.

"Get knotted, tosser," Arthur snapped. "You can take your 'awesome' and shove it up your-"

"Seriously Iggy- just fucking chill, okay?" Alfred interrupted with a weary sigh, weaving the massive SUV through three lanes of traffic to get on the Interstate Thruway. He pressed his right hand over Arthur's mouth when he started to yell. "Look, I know France is being a douche about this whole EU thing, but you basically told him and the entire continent to get fucked. And I thought you were staying here for a month to get away from all that, so please just try to relax. For me?"

_Mon dieu_ , Matthew mused, lips quirking up into a grin. _He followed it up with the Pathetic Look of Kicked Puppy and Begging. Well played, Alfred. Even Kiku falls for that._

Alfred yelped as Arthur bit his hand, drawing the abused appendage back into his lap.

"Both hands on the wheel, poppet," he said mockingly. The black aura seemed to lift slightly as Arthur favored Alfred with a soft half-smile. "And I'll attempt to rein it in. But you have no right to be admonishing me, pet- you would have done the same thing. I have no interest in joining the happy little dysfunctional collective they have going on the continent." Alfred shrugged amiably. "Like my bosses would ever agree to any of that crap. My stupid Congress can't get their shit together to agree on a strategy for deficit reduction, I can't imagine they'd magically shape up enough to present a balanced budget. Plus, I _hella_ hate workin' with you European whackos."

"Don't abuse the language so, Alfred. And might I add, pot and kettle?"

Another careless rise of the shoulders. "Whatev."

"So why _am_ I in this part of the country, Alfred? I haven't been out here in centuries."

Alfred's eyes met Matthew's in the rear view mirror, questioning. Alfred's power tended to wane in the winter while Matthew's rose; truly they were North and South, winter and summer, moon and sun. As such, in private America tended to defer to Canada in the darkest months while he became more dominant and outgoing.

"We're going to our house in the Finger Lakes. On Cayuga Lake, specifically," he replied, leaning forward to run reassuring fingers along the nape of Alfred's neck. "Al and I have a very special ritual we perform this time of year, and we're heading to our most sacred place. We want you both to share it with us…and to share some things that we have kept secret out of necessity."

Arthur's mouth tightened noticeably, though Gilbert favored him with a brilliant grin from his lap. Stroking his lover's pale hair, Matthew returned Arthur's look with a level gaze.

"Why are you talking for Alfred? Seems a bit backwards."

"You know I get weaker in the winter, Iggy," Alfred murmured. "And that Mattie gets stronger. There's a reason for it, and we'll get to it, I promise. After we call the season in this morning."

"Call the season in? What the buggering hell does that mean?"

Matthew blew his bangs out of his face, irritated. "Arthur, your own people were originally pagans. They celebrated the turn of the seasons, too."

"I know that," the testy Brit snapped. "The question is why do you? Your people aren't pagan; they're Christian for the most part. And they don't have those traditions, since all of yours came from us in Europe."

"We had people before you guys came, Iggy."

Alfred's quiet comment, delivered with white knuckles on the steering wheel, seemed to catch England off balance.

"You've never mentioned a thing about…those," Arthur stammered, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Al's brow furrowed.

"Would it have mattered?" he whispered. "My people were still yours when they started killing off the natives. I didn't have the power over them then to change that. Or over you, for that matter."

"Alfred…"

"The first people- our true people- are shared," Matthew continued, turning his reflection inwards in remembrance. "We had no borders then, we were not two but one and our people were peaceful and content. We were meant to be two halves of a single whole; Canada, America…those aren't who we were born to be but who your people made us."

"What were you born to be, vӧgelchen?" Gilbert asked from his lap, that rough _beloved_ voice dragging Matthew's attention forcibly back to the now. Carding his fingers through snowy locks, Canada gave his lover a lopsided smile.

"We'll show you."

"Ah! Look, Iggy- that's the lake," America said, perking up a bit and pointing. The snow had stopped once they exited the Thruway, and the moon shone brightly over the waters of the lake. Matthew knew his smile was gentle, his heart swelling as his mind called _home, home, home_. Arthur's eyes shifted between himself and his brother, the harsh lines around his mouth smoothing out and the sweet fondness Matthew remembered seeing as a child lighting his features. _Please,_ Matthew thought desperately, _please love this place Arthur. This is where our soul lives_.

Gilbert had actually roused himself from Matthew's lap to press his hands to the window. His thin lips were curled into a childish grin, his ruby eyes bright. "It's beautiful, liebling. It reminds me of the lakes in the highlands of Westphalia."

"Cayuga is the longest and widest of the Finger Lakes," Canada replied, twilight eyes on the silver-tipped waves of the dark water nestled between frosted hills. "The story goes that the Great Spirit blessed this land by pressing his hand into the earth, and that sacred water fell from the skies to fill those depressions and become the Finger Lakes."

"Liebling, you're…"

"You gits are glowing."

Matthew glanced down at himself, noting almost absently the pearly luminescent aura around his body. Alfred's own body was enveloped in an auric incandescence. _Moon and sun_. Matthew had never seen Arthur or Gilbert in one of their own sacred spaces, but he knew that they must experience similar surges of power. A nation's heart was his capitol, but his soul was connected to the oldest, most mystical places in his lands; places where the magic of the earth still ran strong and thick, where the veil between the world of men and the spirit realm was thin as spun gossamer. Personifications may be shaped like humans but they most certainly were not, though the majority did not have the raw power to assume their true forms outside of their sacred spaces. Arthur (and his slightly ridiculous, oddly sexy Britannia Angel form) was one of the only exceptions, possessing the magical ability to drop his human guise even when not on his own soil. Matthew and Alfred had never tried, for fear that their true nature would be revealed, but he was pretty sure they could if need be. After all, their soul was that of a continent and not two nations.

"It's beautiful, liebling," Gilbert repeated, reaching his hands out to touch Matthew's radiant skin. One bone-pale finger traced its way over his cheek and throat, catching in the collar of his parka to draw his lips to Gilbert's own. The kiss was lingering and gentle, full of the softer emotions that Prussia usually endeavored to hide away. "Mein Gott, birdie, I can practically taste the energy in you."

"Eww," Al quipped from the front seat, turning over his shoulder to favor his twin with a wicked smirk. "No making out in my car, Mattie."

"Shove it, hoser," Matthew replied, flipping Alfred the bird. "And watch the road, eh? I don't want to end up dragging the Rover out of one of the gorges. Again."

"That was not my fault," America whined, attempting to look contrite but just coming off as pathetic. "That deer was frickin' ginormous."

"You ended up in a _gorge_? Jesus bloody wept, Alfred!"

Canada winced; Arthur was still being awfully shrill. "The area down here near Ithaca is full of waterfalls and gorges," Alfred replied, waving vaguely to the trees on their right. "And Mattie and I carried the car back out, no prob."

"Your absurd strength is hardly an apt rationalization for driving over a bloody waterfall, git."

"Yeah, yeah. We're coming up on the house, by the way."

Alfred turned left off the highway into a winding trail all but invisible from the road, downshifting with a grumble to navigate the dangerous slope down to the lake.

"Holy shit, does this road go straight down?" Gilbert exclaimed, his fingers clutching at Canada's sleeve. Matthew grinned- Awesome Prussia was actually a little bit chicken about heights.

"Pretty much," Alfred beamed. "It's great cause you can't see the house from the road or nothin'. We kinda like privacy. Specially since we aren't really supposed to have a house together, you know? Our governments don't know about this place, so…"

Gilbert's fingers tightened farther on his as Matthew held his breath. Arthur, despite having a weakness for Alfred, was a stickler for rules- when they suited him, at any rate. One enormous brow lifted to a messy hairline, those acid-green eyes narrowing to a laser focus on him. "This isn't Alfred's house? It's yours…together? Like Haskell House?"

"Yeah."

Alfred's terse reply was nervous, and Matthew gave Arthur his best "You Just Changed the Channel During the Hockey Playoffs, Hoser!" glare. "This is one of those things you needed to know, Arthur. One of those things you either have to accept about us or walk. We have one soul, and that has some…mystical ramifications."

"One…?"

"Soul, yes. This will be easier to explain after this morning." Matthew's face abruptly brightened as Alfred pulled the Land Rover into a small clearing overlooking the lake. By the Mother, he had missed their home here; it had been three years since they had last been to the lake, due to the state of Alfred's economy and opposing schedules. Now they had a whole month, with their hopefully accepting lovers, to recharge. Even without Alfred's financial problems, he was starting to feel worn and spread a bit too thin.

Their house was a rambling old Colonial, buried in a grove of pine trees on a shelf at the Western shore of the lake. Everything from the wrought-iron gates of the widow's walk to the sprawling glassed-in patio lifted Matthew's spirits, and he could see his relief mirrored in the childish glee on Alfred's face. The house was merrily lit for the holidays, twinkling white lights spiraling around the porch columns and dripping from the eaves, fresh evergreen wreaths on every window and door.

"Al, did you…?"

"Naw, but I bet I know who did. The old man must've sent the kids to fix the house up for us."

The front door opened, spilling a long rectangle of warm yellow light onto the porch and framing a waving teenager. The boy's dark hair was in a messy ponytail, his amber skin and cheerful brown eyes making him seem to blend in with the night as he ran down the drive to meet their car. Alfred cut the ignition and jumped from the truck, taking the boy in his arms and swinging him in a circle before holding him at arm's length and measuring his height against his own. Matthew disengaged himself from his curious lover and scooped up Kumajiro before following, the other two nations trailing behind in an odd show of reticence.

"…and you're so damned tall, you little brat!" Alfred was laughing and ruffling the teen's hair, much to the boy's chagrin. "Did the old man send you up here?"

"Yeah," the boy responded, slapping Alfred's hands from his locks in mock horror and redoing his ponytail. "He Saw you about a week ago; said the girls and I should haul down here to get the old place ready. Said you'd be staying for a while, and that you'd have some important company." He gave a wide, purposefully obnoxious smile to Arthur and Gilbert, and a very America-esque wave. "Hey there, important company."

"Knock it off, Jimmy," Matt sighed, rolling his eyes. "Arthur, Gilbert, this is Jimmy Clearwater. He's the grandson of the Chief of the Seneca Nation, a very old friend."

Arthur gave a curt nod, and Gilbert a creepy smile. Maple, Jimmy was a bit too much like Al; getting him and Prussia together could be trouble. Jimmy's eyes went vague and frosted over for a moment before the boy shook his head like a dog out of water.

"You guys are nations too, huh? Man, that's kinda freaky."

"Your Sight is getting stronger, then?" Matthew whispered. Some members of the Seneca and Cayuga Indians still possessed a trace of the Mother's magic even now, though their numbers were dwindling severely. Jimmy was one of the few remaining members of the tribe that was full-blood, and a part of a great line of chiefs spanning two hundred years. His grandfather was the most powerful the tribe had seen since the days when he and Alfred had roamed among them, and Jimmy had inherited his talent. Of course, that was partially Alfred's fault as well.

"Yeah." He pointed to the small, star-shaped birthmark above his left eyebrow. "Gramps thinks that since the Big Man over here was the first to touch me when I was born, I'm marked for leadership or some shit. He's been waiting for you guys to come back, so he can get your blessing to make the succession official."

Alfred's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Matthew was sure his were doing the same. Jimmy held up his hands defensively. "I know, I'm only 19. It seems dumb to me too, but he insists."

"Hey, the old man knows what he's doing, kiddo. We'll come down to the reservation after Christmas. It'll be great- we'll drink whiskey and tell stories and talk to your Gramps, okay? And hey- thanks for decorating the house. It looks great," Alfred said with a reassuring grin, rubbing Jimmy's shoulder. The boy perked up again, as irrepressible as his nation.

"Thanks. The girls cleaned up and cooked some stuff for you guys, and left the fridge full of food and beer. I left my cell number next to the phone since Gramps won't get one, so you can call me about when you're comin'. I got work tomorrow, so I'll get outta your hair."

Another round of hugs and hair-ruffling, and Jimmy pulled his old truck back up the trail.

"How did that kid know what we are?" Arthur blurted as Alfred piled all of the suitcases on top of each other and carried them into the house one-handed. Matthew snorted. "None of your people still retain magical abilities, Arthur? Some of the remaining American Indians still have talents running in their blood, and Jimmy is one of those. He and his grandfather both can see things- old power gathered in the earth, snippets of the future, the truth beyond the veil- even if it is in little pieces."

"The older tribes all pretty much know who and what we are," Alfred added, dumping their luggage next to the stairs and heading to the kitchen. Probably to check out what was in the fridge, if Matthew knew his twin. Warm arms slipped around his waist and Matthew leaned back into Gilbert's solid chest.

"Gott, you're sexy when you go all mystical on me, birdie."

A tracing of chapped lips down his jugular vein made Matthew shudder hard and tilt his head to the side to give his lover better access. Arthur made a disgusted sound and followed Alfred into the kitchen, and Matthew very sincerely considered leaving them to their own devices while he gave his lover a very thorough tour of the bedroom. One piece of furniture at a time, if he had his way about it. _No, bad Matthew, bad!_ he thought, disentangling himself from a protesting Gilbert. _Other things first. And you say Al is bad about thinking with his dick._

"Matthew…" Gilbert growled, his eyes aglow in the dim light of the entryway. "I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Canada shuddered down to his very bones; that lusty snarl should be illegal. "Just a little longer, Gilbert. The Solstice is tomorrow morning. Please- I have to know you'll still accept me after what you see, before I can be with you like that."

"I can't think of anything that would change my mind about you, Matthew," Gilbert argued, shaking his head. "Gott, you've seen every verdammt horrible thing about me and still want me- I'm not even really a nation anymore."

"Neither are we," Matthew whispered.

"I don't understand."

"You will tomorrow," he sighed, holding a hand out to his lover. "Let's just round up Al and Arthur and get some sleep."

.

.

Gilbert and Arthur stood on the deck, smoking and contemplating the dark water before them. He wasn't sure what made his little bird shove them out of bed at five in the morning, but Gilbert supposed it must be important. At least England didn't look any happier about it than he did- Prussia hated suffering alone.

"We're ready now."

Turning towards Matthew's soft voice, Gilbert felt any response catch in his throat at the sight of his lover. Matthew was dressed in light tan, suede leather from head to toe, embroidered here and there with blue and red beading and laced with darker leather thongs. Overtop he wore a hooded cloak lined with bearskin, and had more beads threaded into his amber hair. His glasses were missing, leaving his eyes exposed to the fading moonlight in a shifting aurora borealis of power that Gilbert had never seen on the mild-mannered boy. Matthew's skin still glowed from within and his height seemed to assert itself for once, causing the man to tower over his companions. Kumajiro walked by his side, but not as Gilbert had ever known him- the polar bear cub was now full-grown, a massive force of nature and symbol of the True North.

"I'm kind of wishing I didn't pick on the bear so much now."

Matthew giggled, a heart-warming sound that made his insides melt just a bit. Gilbert still wasn't sure, even after nine months, of how Matthew managed to make him so emotional, so weak…so _happy_ just by being himself. Didn't know, and didn't care. It was enough that he was, and for once in his miserable life Gilbert was trying to accept his blessings as they came.

"Did you remember the pahos, Mattie?"

If he hadn't known that Canada was already in front of him, Prussia would have thought it was his timid lover's voice calling from the door. America had never sounded so subdued, so tentative, and it was playing all kinds of hell with his libido. _"Damn twins,"_ he cursed.

Alfred was dressed like his brother, except his cloak was lined with what appeared to be eagle feathers; a notion further reinforced by the gigantic bird perched menacingly on his shoulder. His skin, too, was radiant but his expression was worried and nervous. The kid was actually biting his lip, a gesture Gilbert would never have associated with brash, outspoken America.

"I have them, Alfie," Matthew replied, laying a bracing hand on his brother's shoulder and steering him towards England.

"Um, Arthur? I want you to meet Liberty." Alfred scratched one finger under the great bird's chin, his eyes full of so much pleading for acceptance that even Gilbert wanted to hug him. Just a little. Not too much, as he had an awesome rep to maintain. "She's my totem. My…familiar, like Kuma is for Mattie."

"You, Mister 'Magic Doesn't Exist', have a familiar?" England replied, incredulous. "Why do you not keep her with you, like Matthew does? And why am I not surprised that she's your bloody national symbol?"

"Hey, Jefferson pushed for the bald eagle _after_ he met Liberty- she's the original symbol. And she's like me- she likes her freedom too much to be cooped up on a tether. So I leave her here at the lake, where she can fly."

Arthur reached a tentative hand out to stroke the eagle's head, only to receive a sharp snap of the beak in warning. Alfred frowned.

"Thatesatotat, Liberty!"

Liberty ducked her head under Alfred's chin, nuzzling in apology while still managing to look at England as though she'd peck his eyes out if he came anywhere close. "Sorry, Iggy. I think she kinda remembers you, is all. Having to hide from you, anyway."

Arthur looked like he might argue at that, but Matthew had already grabbed Alfred's elbow to lead him down the dock towards the water. "We'll be late if we don't go now. Come on, you two- if you still want to know that is."

Gilbert shared a long look with Arthur, stubbed out his cigarette, and followed. He could hear England doing the same (though far less quietly) behind him. When the boys reached the water's edge they lifted their hands to the sky and, much to Gilbert's surprise, began to sing. He had heard Matthew hum before, when playing his acoustic guitar or while cooking or cleaning, but it occurred to him that he had never heard Matthew actually sing aloud. For the life of him, he could not understand why; those two voices, lifted in perfect unison to the dying light of the stars, were so pure and clear that the very air around them rung with the sound. It was ethereal, the pair of high tenors that broke the stillness of the night with foreign words and magic that made Gilbert's veins tingle and hair stand on end. The music they wrought pulled at his soul; a wild urge to dance under the moon, to swim naked in the lake, to lie in the forest glades rising strong and sure within him. On the edge of awareness, he heard Arthur gasp at his side and knew that the spell Matthew and Alfred wove was not in just his own head. A black shape, ominous and large in the dim light, broke the water just in front of the brothers to end the impromptu song. A low conversation in Mohawk (he thought that's what Matthew called the language he and his twin spoke privately) ensued, before the boys beckoned to the older nations behind.

"Elder Brother will take us to the center of the lake now," Matthew said, smiling. "It is an honor for him to show himself to anyone else but us, much less let you ride him."

"Ride …?" Arthur began, choking on his words when he saw the sheer size of the freaking _turtle_ at the end of the dock.

"Is that a giant fucking turtle?" Gilbert winced even as the words tumbled out. _"Very smooth,"_ he groaned in his head.

"Elder is one of the few remaining Anasazi," Matthew explained, apparently too used to his bluntness to take offense. "He sleeps here in Cayuga, which has seen very little disruptive human activity and is deep enough and magical enough to hide him."

"But you can't go as you are," Alfred added, an odd look crossing his young features. He flinched at England's stern countenance, and held out his hands as though begging them both. "Elder's magic drives off humans, and that includes our human forms. You'll…have to drop them."

"Are you daft?" Arthur squeaked. Prussia grinned at him, baring his teeth. "I'll catch my bloody death in that get up!"

"Bullshit," he replied. "You won't be human, arschloch, you won't feel the cold." An apologetic glance at his lover followed. "But I can't, vögelchen. I haven't the strength or the magic anymore."

Matthew crossed the dock to stand in front of Gilbert, delicate hands lifting to caress his cheeks with his characteristic gentleness. "Then share mine," he whispered before drawing Gilbert's lips to his own. As always, the barest touch of Matthew's mouth to his own undid him; he heart soared into his throat, his useless hands rising to clutch weakly at his lover's cloak as he opened his lips to that velvet tongue. That familiar chill, sweet taste seemed to be far richer this morning, as if he was being fed on Matthew's essence itself. Power flowed into him like a wellspring, and quite suddenly Gilbert found his core full to the brim. Even more so; the sheer immensity of the banked strength that lay in his quiet companion was open to him now, and he was both awed and humbled by it. As Matthew drew away, he could feel the vestiges of his human form shed as snakeskin to leave his purest self exposed to Matthew's incredible eyes.

What did he see, his beautiful bird? Skin made whiter than any human's could be, hair turned to frost on water? Chaos rubies glowing like hot coals in his gaze? Did he see the vestments of the priest, as bleached as the rest of him (but not pure, never that), and how they were anchored by the weight of the cracked iron cross at his waist, with its black aura (his sins, so many and always with him)? He could hide no longer behind "Gilbert Beillschmidt" the awesome, partying drunkard in this form. Like this, he was Prussia, Deutscher Ritterorden, _Ordo domus Sanctæ Mariæ Theutonicorum Hierosolymitanorum_ to his brother's _Imperium Romanum Sacrum_. He was a shade, a decaying ruin of former glory, while Canada was…well, he was a bit unsure now of what Canada was but that power he had touched spoke of a magnificence beyond what Prussia had known even at his mightiest. Matthew merely tipped his head to the side with soft eyes and let his own true semblance come to light.

Canada was a vision of winter and water. His complexion shone mother-of-pearl, though his eyes were the same ever-changing Northern lights they had been since coming to this place. His hair lengthened to his shoulders, paling to white-gold waves crowned with a rippling aqueous halo. He carried a mahogany staff in one hand, surmounted by a fist-sized nugget of what Prussia thought was polished turquoise. Strangest of all was the glowing cord, made of _rainbows_ that stretched from his heart to his brother's. Changing his form must have also triggered America's change, for the boy at the other end of that tether was barely recognizable. Like Canada, America's eyes were the least changed- they still gleamed a clear, fathomless aqua. His skin had become darker, almost molten caramel, while his hair glinted in dozens of shades of metallic gold and fell nearly to his shoulder blades. He too, possessed an elemental crown on his brow, dancing sparks of flame that burned white-hot but never scorched. His left hand clutched a staff identical to his twin's, but most disconcerting to Prussia were the new appendages on America's back. The feathered cloak had fallen away to reveal true wings in shades of honeyed brown, though nothing like the fluffy angel's wings England was now sporting above his miniscule tunic; these were the wings of a raptor, a bird of prey, the wings of an eagle.

Prussia could rarely remember being struck dumb in his long life, but he was speechless now. England, who _never_ kept his own counsel, was silent as well. Turning to the water, Canada slipped his left hand into America's right and they stepped as one onto the back of the great beast with their totem animals in tow. They each slipped their staffs into a leather sheath on their backs, and held their free hands out.

"Come, Königreich Preußen and Britannia. Come with us to bring back the light," Canada called. Without hesitation, Prussia took the outstretched fingers of his beloved and joined him on the creature. He may have been a little weirded out by a giant turtle and Al with wings, but he had trusted his life to Canada before and had never had cause to regret it. At his side, England hovered an inch or so in the air, clutching at America's hand as though he would break it.

"Ame-"

"No," America interrupted, his voice firmer than Prussia had heard it all week. "We are not human here, nor are we the personifications of the nations that your people made. Here we are who we were born, and we must be addressed as such." He went down on one knee before his former guardian, placing his lips to pale knuckles with a grace Prussia had not known the clumsy fool possessed. "I am Alok Jacy, He Who Cries Victory to the Moon."

Canada knelt as well, his own soft flesh pressed to Prussia's rough skin. "I am Machk Wematin, The Bear's Brother. Together we are the Hero Twins, sons of Begochiddy, Child of the Sun and personification of North America. Together we were formed to accept her burden."

"Machk…" he whispered, drawing the fingers of his free hand down that luminescent cheek. The corners of his lips turned up as he tilted his lover's chin so that their lips could meet. "It suits you, vögelchen."

The boy beamed at him, pulling him back to his feet to wrap his arm around Prussia's waist. America ( _Alok?_ ) had done the same with his own irascible partner, finally getting England's feet to touch down firmly. Prussia fought with the urge to laugh at the sight of an angel in a tiny toga ineffectually swatting the far broader chest of an apologetic Native American god, but as per usual failed.

"Gott, you two look stupid."

Alok's goofy responding grin broke the tension somewhat, and he stroked his lover's wings soothingly. "I wanted to tell you. So many times, I wanted to tell you, to show you," Alok said, a helpless look on his face. "The first time I saw you in this form, I wanted nothing more than to share the sky with you. But Machk and I agreed long before we met you or Gallia- we couldn't reveal what we were until we had both of our intended with us, and were strong enough to stand on our own."

England reached a hesitant hand forwards to run along Alok's wings, and so (totally ruining the moment) did Prussia. England's scorching glare did nothing to dim his enthusiasm. "What? These are pretty boss."

Machk chuckled, adding his own touch so that all three men were caging and petting his now-cringing brother. "Alok helps me find the freedom of the skies, and I help keep him grounded to the earth. Identical twins but polar opposites, always finding a balance in the middle. That is what we really are- balance."

"You also said you're North America," Prussia mused, watching the ripples of the black lake as Elder Brother guided them to its center. "But I think Mexico might object."

"Very good thought," Machk laughed. "But wrong. Where we divide the continents today is not where Gitchi Manitou did. Mexico belonged to Coyote's people in South America; he is also a normal nation, and we are not. We were born directly from the avatar of a continent, rather than appearing through the magic of the earth and the will of a cohesive people like the rest of you. Mother gave us her own soul when we were born, split into two equal pieces."

"Right here," Alok finished for him, "in the middle of this lake, on Elder Brother's back. This is what we could not- cannot- tell any of the other personifications. If it became common knowledge what we are and that we are inseparable…"

"Then you might have others trying to band together to destroy you," England reasoned. Long fingers stroked Alok's neck, tracing his collarbone to land next to his heart. "I can think of many who would find the potential power in the unity of so many resources and such strength terrifying."

"Are you one of them?"

The simple question, spoken with such cutting honesty and in complete unison (thought to two different targets), made Prussia ache.

"Not me, birdie. I'm not anything like other nations, and neither are you. It's part of why I love you, liebling."

"You…" Machk's starlight eyes brimmed with tears, which turned to crystal as they slipped down his cheeks. "You've never said it before."

"Ja, well, I'm saying it now. Ich liebe dich, vögelchen. Immer, egal was du bist."

His arms were suddenly and alarmingly full, Machk wrapped so tight around his middle that Prussia thought he would never breathe again; but at least he would suffocate with a smile. Kisses were peppered over his face, his neck, any part of him that Machk could reach, until a low growl sounded from Kumajiro.

"I'm with the bear. Gross."

"Belt it, git," England sniffed, trying for dignity for a moment. "Oh, bugger it. I'm with the bear too, that's enough of that."

England must have answered the question to Alok's satisfaction while Prussia and Machk were _occupied_ , for the tight lines around the boy's eyes had finally relaxed and a companionable arm was slung about the island nation's shoulders, their wing feathers blending with a strange harmony Prussia thought was kind of beautiful.

"We're here anyway," Machk said, blushing to the roots of his hair. He drew four small bundles of sticks from a beaded pouch at his waist, handing one to each man. "These are pahos, prayer sticks. Alok and I will be singing the Moon Song and the Sun Song, spells to celebrate the return of the sun after the solstice. Which, if I'm hearing the Star Song right, should be in four minutes?"

"Five," Alok corrected, eyes already turned upwards. "It's 5:25 a.m. right now."

Machk shrugged. "Ah, you've always been better with the songs of the air. The stars always talked to you more."

"And the earth speaks more to you. Don't get pissy."

"I used to do this every year at Stonehenge," England sighed, nostalgia creeping into his voice. "When my people still clung to the old ways."

"Gott, you're an old man," Prussia mumbled.

"You're both old, now listen up," Alok sniped. "When we do, raise the pahos to the sky and then cast them into the lake, one to each cardinal direction. Machk will throw North, I'll throw South, Prussia will throw East, and Britannia will throw West, okay?"

"Ja, ja, we're not stupid."

"Debatable," the American grumbled.

Machk shook his head, ignoring his brother's rumblings to lace their fingers together. "I begin, with the Song of the Moon that is at its height of strength this day; an homage to its power and light. May you turn your face gently towards sleep and send us a calm winter." At that, Canada tilted his head to the sky and began to sing; it was soft at first, a whisper across the waves, but grew in volume as he went. It was high and sweet, Machk's song, swelling and receding like the tides. Prussia closed his eyes, and behind his lids the tune called forth images of white moonlight on foamy shores, of stardust glinting on a new snowfall, of the glimmer of a clear night in an indigo-tinted winter world. America's voice joined in the chorus as the song began to taper off, his lower harmony resonant in Prussia's bones.

"I bring the Song of the Sun that returns from its long sleep this day, a beckoning plea to bring its great warmth to the land. May you turn your face brightly towards the waking world and hasten the end of the dark."

America intoned his part over Canada's dying song, his voice shifting to become the melody while his twin's dropped underneath for support. Alok's song was slow but bold, increasing in strength as he went into a triumphant crescendo. Prussia's mind now sent him a picture of golden-rose dawn peaking over the snow-covered hills, chasing the violet shades of night back to the other side of the earth. As he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see the image from his head made manifest in reality- the sun was rising and early if he was any judge. Both twins raised the prayer sticks over the heads now, spinning gracefully to stand back to back. Identical features were jubilant and so damned lovely in the infant sunrise, their music pouring forth in a near-tangible flood to wrap around the other nations and secure them in its protection. With a final ringing note, both boys cast their sticks to the waters, Prussia and England hastening to do the same. England, he noted, made some gesture with his fingers to his lips and muttered a phrase in some other tongue under his breath. Prussia smiled; sometimes it was easy to forget just how old England was, and how wild and pagan he and the other Celtic nations were underneath that thin veneer of civility. These rituals were in all likelihood not that unfamiliar to the Brit.

"The Darkest Day is ended; let the sun return in its time to the world," Machk said. He and America were leaning heavily into each other's backs now, exhausted from their show of magic. He felt their pain- he had not been in his true form in some time and it was Canada's waning magical power that was keeping him there. England alone seemed unphased, his white toga and wings immaculate and his golden bracers and halo sparkling in the early light as he ran his fingers through the boys' hair.

"There now, pets. Well done- as lovely a spell as I've ever seen."

Prussia could see questions in England's face still (and there were plenty of his own), but his mood swings seemed to land him squarely in "mommy mode" when the kids were tired or hurt. To be fair, both of the giant idiots were acting like his sons at the moment, basking in England's attentions and beaming wide enough to split their lips at his praise.

As Elder Brother towed them back to shore, their boys began to tell the story of their origins; of a Great Spirit and personifications of the continents, and of their Mother's prophetic dream. England never stopped petting their heads as they took turns speaking of their single soul, of how they could not be separated for too long without becoming weak and ill, of decades spent sneaking around their keepers to meet in secret. Prussia found himself laughing as they confessed that they fell into sleeping together as a way of realigning their souls and magic when one twin was damaged in body or spirit- he knew it was a dick thing to do, but those blushes were so awesomely adorable. It was also, in truth, to cover up some of the shock he felt at the enormity of their tale. To think that the avatar of this continent had seen that he, Awesome Prussia, would be vital (heh, "vital") to saving the world and _made her son just for him_ was terrifying and humbling and so goddamned _welcome_. Matthew had made him feel alive again after a lifetime of war and blood, but to have this reassurance that he was needed and thought worthy of such a gift went a long way towards making him feel like a true nation once more. As he jumped off the turtle's back onto the dock, Prussia favored his lover with his wildest, most awesome grin. He offered his hand, pulling Matthew hard into the circle of his arms and spinning him with a mad glee. He'd been a pathetic mess these last seventy years, and it was time he remembered who he was- someone who kicked ass and took names and was meant for fucking greatness.

"Gil, what-?"

"Love you, birdie," he laughed, pressing his lips to his lover's with a fierceness that left them both breathless. "Gott, we're going to be the baddest ass couple ever. That's right bitches, I'm awesome and my boyfriend's a fucking continent, so back the fuck up before your vital regions are ours!"

Matthew giggled, their human semblances returning as he grew too dizzy to hold his concentration. "You know you're crazy, eh?"

"Crazy like a damned bear," Gilbert boasted, sticking his middle finger up at an irritated Kumajiro. "I knew you were special from the moment I saw you, vögelchen, but I couldn't even dream of something this epic."

"You…you're okay with this? With us being what we are, and the fact that we're kind of a package deal?" Canada's eyes were disbelieving, and Gilbert thought it was just about the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, dragging his Canadian into an impromptu waltz up the dock. "So you're not like other nations- neither am I. So you've got an annoying bruder attached to your hip- at least he's cool to drink with and pretty hot, unlike Bruder-Herr-Schtick-is-so-far-up-my-ass-I-spit-toothpicks."

"Hey!"

Gilbert ignored Alfred in favor of dipping Matthew low and caressing his cheek. "So we're supposed to save the world or some shit- bring it on. As long as I'm with you."

Matthew beamed, and Gilbert abruptly found his air supply cut off by an exuberant Canadian. Despite the insanely early hour, despite Alfred and Arthur's annoyed grumbling and the distinct sound of a bear mouth-vomiting behind him, despite the fact that he was going to need some oxygen before he passed out, Gilbert was pretty sure this day couldn't get more awesome. The abrupt reversal of their positions and the strong, long-fingered hand that slipped into his back pocket to squeeze his ass proved him wrong.

_"Oh, Canada" for damn sure_.

.

.

Matthew was quite certain he was drowning. Gilbert's matter-of-fact acceptance of the enormity of his confessions had driven all the breath from his lungs, and their resultant kiss stole his air. Arms like steel bands wrapped tightly around his waist, pressing him against his lover's wiry torso. For a long moment Matthew lay passive and pliant in Gilbert's embrace, but the surge of triumph and relief welling up from the depths of his soul would not allow that for long. He had been so unsure of Gilbert's response, so afraid that if he were rejected he would fade back into his brother's shadow, never to return. How many nations could so easily accept that they were fated to save the world? How many could take the news that their beloved had been chosen for them by a higher power in stride, to accept that more powerful lover with barely a moment's hesitation? Not many, Matthew was sure; the personifications were, at their cores, selfish creatures, the greatest excesses of man (good and ill) condensed into one body. Nations tended to be hedonistic and fickle, choosing to forgo personal ties with one another rather than risk today's lover becoming tomorrow's political enemy. Prussia had been no different once and Matthew had no illusions about that, but his dissolution had changed something vital in him; the lessons he learned under Russia's cruel hand etching his soul with new ideals. In rare bursts of self-confidence, Matthew thought that he might have had a hand in Gilbert's reinvention as well. He and Al had hoped for their loves, had prayed to Gitchi Manitou to grant them understanding, but he had not wanted to give his whole heart until he had an assurance. What a fool he had been, to doubt the Mother's plan and her choice.

Matthew threw one arm around his lover's neck and the other down to curl around his lean waist, using his superior strength to flip their positions. He let his hand creep into Gilbert's pants pocket and squeeze and gods, if he hadn't wanted to do that for months. He reluctantly left those pale lips to work fierce kisses onto the line of Gilbert's jaw, flicking his tongue out to taste the skin there. Tobacco and salt and cold winter air; that flavor burned a path down his throat to pool low in his belly. _"Should've known better, should've trusted him more, love him so damned much, the rash idiot,"_ his mind whispered over and over again, the lust he'd been suppressing for nine months crashing over him in a dizzying wave. Gilbert's guttural moan drifted to his ears, and Matthew clutched his fingers tight in snowy locks to expose more of his beloved's neck to his teeth and lips and tongue. Dimly, he was aware of a faint protest from somewhere behind him, but his mind was too clouded to process it. _"Mine, mine, all mine now no reason to hold back, oh gods."_

"Jesus bloody wept, we're still here, you tossers!"

Despite his preoccupied state, Matthew thought he showed remarkable coordination by managing to flip Arthur the bird behind his back while still marking Gilbert's skin.

"Erm, Iggy, how 'bout I take you out for breakfast? There's this awesome place just a couple miles away, then we'll go look at the waterfalls together and talk this out. How about it, babe?"

_"Oh thank gods, Al read the atmosphere,"_ Matthew thought, sending a hummed bar of gratitude to his other half while working the belt of Gilbert's jeans open. Retreating footsteps, the crunch of gravel, and a muttered "Don't call me that, git" were lost to the breeze; grinning broad enough to fit America, Matthew pulled back from his partner's throat to nod his head towards the house.

"You wanna?" he rasped, the most coherent sentence he could manage. Gilbert's crimson eyes flared with want and gratitude, his bone-pale fingers clutching the furred neckline of Matthew's robe.

"Gott, vӧgelchen, I thought you'd never ask."

Their lips connected again and together they stumbled up the porch and through the sliding glass doors, nearly tripping on the doorframe on their way. Matthew dropped his robe at the door with Gilbert's coat, breaking their kiss just long enough to drag the other's hooded sweatshirt over his head, his t-shirt still tangled inside. His hands ran over Gilbert's chest and stomach as though he'd never seen them before, urgent fingers tracing every dip and curve of the lean muscles there. Tongues clashed and dueled for dominance as Matthew brought his hands up to flick and pinch at pale nipples. Gilbert made a choking sound deep in his throat, surrendering his mouth completely to Matthew's hungry kiss as he rolled those stiffening buds and let his nails draw gently across them. Still connected, Matthew led Gilbert blind through the hallway and onto the stairs, giving up climbing them in favor of pressing his lover down to lay beneath him on their incline. He broke their kiss, leaving a trail of saliva to strain and break in the air between in favor of trailing his lips down Gilbert's pectorals and abdomen, tongue hotly tracing the deep scar across his torso from his dissolution. Gilbert threw his head back with a slight "thunk", muttering curses under his breath in German as his hands pulled Matthew's honey hair and his back arched. Matthew's lips twisted in a wicked smile- let it never be said that Canada wasn't the master of unspoken gestures. He unclasped Gilbert's jeans and peeled them off his long legs to toss them back into the hallway, making short work of his rather hideous neon-yellow boxer shorts next. He sat back on his heels, staring at the sight spread out before him- pale, heavily scarred skin stretched over lean muscles; the trail of coarse silver curls leading down to a leaking member flushed rosy pink and straining towards him. Gilbert whined in the back of his throat.

"Mein Gott, birdie, after nine months all you're going to do is _look?_ I mean ja, I'm awesome but-"

Matthew threw himself on Gilbert, thrusting his tongue back into that sweet cavern to glut himself on the taste of cigarettes, beer, and clove that always seemed to linger there. His callused fingertips slid back down Gilbert's sides and across his hipbones, tracing their prominent ridges before running a single digit up the underside of his length. Gilbert made a sound like a strangled cat into Matthew's mouth, and the Canadian pulled back with a chuckle. Firmly grasping his cock by the base, Matthew ran his hands from root to tip in a gentle rhythm, one over the other and then cycling around again. The exultant cry from beneath him echoed in the vaulted timbers of the ceiling.

"Yes, yes, yes, dear Gott Matthew harder!"

Prussia's utter lack of shame made his cheeks flame red as his lover thrashed beneath him, probably getting rug burns from the stairs for his trouble. Matthew drew his hands away with great reluctance, nipping Gilbert's bottom lip in apology.

"Let's take this upstairs, eh?"

"We can take this to the damn rocks on the shore if you'll do that again," Gilbert panted, one arm thrown over his eyes. Matthew scooped Gilbert up as though he were a child, cradling him in his arms and taking the stairs three at a time. He kicked open his bedroom door and tossed his burden on the feather bed, Prussia's skin fairly glowing against the crimson coverlet. Canada followed before the ex-nation even bounced, sealing their lips together in another torrid kiss and struggling with the leather ties on his shirt. Rough fingers came up to aid him, dragging the soft leather from his form so eagerly it chafed. Growling low in his throat, Matthew sat up just long enough to wrench his pants down trembling legs. Finally naked, he stretched out along the length of his love in a long line of fevered skin and nipped hard at his collarbones and along the curve of his muscled shoulders. Prussia tangled his fingers in Matthew's own, forcibly aiming them back to the fabled five meters in an unspoken demand for him to get on with it. Laughing in earnest this time, Matthew complied and slid his hand up his lover's shaft, twisting at the tip and receiving a series of delightful mewls for his efforts. He lowered his head to lick a hot line up the length of the penis in his hand, lubricating his stroking, before closing his mouth around the head. Relaxing his lips, Matthew followed his hand down and back up the impressive member, swirling his tongue around the frenulum on the upstroke and sucking harshly at the base. When his fingers were wet with his own saliva, he let them drift down to fondle Gilbert's balls, rolling them while taking every inch of his lover down his throat. Base curses, appeals to God and broken pieces of Matthew's name spilled from Gilbert's lips in a sobbing litany as he swallowed, sliding a single finger into his lover at the same time. Gilbert tensed for only a moment before relaxing with a sigh and spreading his legs further apart. A second finger followed, and Matthew crooked them forwards to search for that patch of flesh that would make his Prussian see stars. A strange sound that was half-groan, half-yelp alerted him to his discovery, and Matthew kneaded the gland fiercely as he hollowed his cheeks and puffed air to the base of Gilbert's cock.

"Verdammt, Matthew, just get up here and _fuck me already!_ "

Matthew let the weeping cock slide out of his mouth extra slow just to be contrary, a glittering strand of saliva still connecting him to his lover's organ before he licked his lips like a contented cat. "Bossy."

Crawling back up to Gilbert's lips, Matthew propped himself up on his right arm while he rummaged in his nightstand with his left.

"Fuck the lube, just do it."

"No," Matthew replied, fisting his hand in Gilbert's hair and meeting his eyes squarely for the first time since they had begun. "I love you, Gil, and I'm not going to just fuck you like some slut without a care for your wellbeing." A slow smirk flitted onto his lips at the indignant anger sparking in those ruby eyes. "At least, not this first time, eh?"

"There's my maple-flavored freak," Gilbert purred approvingly, licking his little bird's chin and nipping his jaw. He drew the hand in his hair down to tangle his fingers with Matthew's. "All right, baby. Make love to me now; fuck me through the wall later."

"Gladly." Closing his fingers around the lube bottle, Matthew clicked open the cap and poured a generous amount of slick into their joined hands. His own fingers returned to their previous occupation, stretching Gilbert's hot walls, while his lover finally closed a sure hand around his own erection. Hissing at the contact and now so erect it ached; Matthew drew away and slid his arms under Gilbert's legs, resting his knees on the crook of his elbows to spread him open further. Feeling a little faint, he pushed his desire into Gilbert's entrance and rolled his hips, opening that passage further with each shallow thrust. Gilbert's breath caught in that first heady mixture of pleasure and pain, and Matthew chased the sound with his lips, his tongue fucking Gilbert's mouth in a gentle parody of his motions below. Fingernails dug into Matthew's shoulders, but those pinpricks only added to the fire in his groin as he seated himself fully, balls deep in a constricting heat he'd been dreaming about for months. Cursing softly in French, Matthew began to thrust in earnest as Gilbert's hips rose to meet him, setting up a wild, desperate rhythm that spoke of a yearning too strong to let them savor the moment. Panting, Matthew threw Gilbert's legs up to his shoulders and nearly bent him in half, the deeper penetration met with ecstatic cry and greedy pleas for more, harder, faster. Canada complied, his own end swiftly nearing from the sheer overload of sensation and the beauty of his wanton partner, begging in shameless abandon for him. Just before the wave crashed over him, Matthew managed to slide his hand between their slick bodies to stroke his partner's need firmly from root to tip. That was all Gilbert needed and he painted their stomachs white as he screamed Matthew's name. Struggling to keep his eyes open and on his lover's face, Matthew let himself go; his vision blanked and his arms collapsed as he filled Gilbert's passage with his seed, leaving him a helpless, shuddering mess on top of his beloved. Dimly, he felt Gilbert stroke his hair as they regained their breath and his pulse slowed enough to quiet the thunder in his ears. They lay there for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, basking in the afterglow, before Gilbert's chest started to shake. Alarmed, Matthew pulled back enough to see that the bastard was actually _laughing._

"That was so good it took years off my life, vögelchen," Prussia chuckled, tweaking Canada's nose. "But now I need a shower, a cigarette, and pancakes. Not necessarily in that order."

"Who said I was making you pancakes hoser?"

Gilbert snorted at that, sitting up enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed and wincing a bit before favoring him with a shit-eating grin. "The ache in my ass, that's who. Second largest country, huh? I believe it now."

Matthew had, since he started dating the infamous Prussia, started blushing much more seldom, but sometimes the man was so incorrigible he made avoiding embarrassment impossible. He tried his best to look imperious despite crimson cheeks and a semen-stained stomach, slapping Gilbert lightly on the ass as he swept past. "Guess I won't fuck you through the wall later, then."

That signature snicker followed him to the bathroom. "Never said I didn't like it…hey Matthew?"

"Hmm?" Matthew responded with an absent tone, a dopey smile on his face as he started the shower.

"Is that a tattoo of a maple leaf on your _ass?_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haskell House is extremely cool-it is an opera house (now free library) built in 1907 straddling the border between Canada (Stanstead, Quebec) and the US (Derby Line, Vermont). There's a black line dividing the place where the border exists. It's called "the only library in the US with no books" or "the only opera in the US with no stage", since the library collections and the stage (though not the seats) of the opera are in Quebec and the main door and seats are in Vermont. An American sawmill owner and his Canadian wife built it for both sets of citizens to use- I can see Mattie and Alfred having a hand in it and meeting up there.
> 
> The area around Ithaca, NY and lower Cayuga Lake is full of beautiful waterfalls and gorges. You can even swim at the base of several of them- go if you're ever in the Finger Lakes region. Seriously.
> 
> Two links to great images of the area of Cayuga Lake in this story:
> 
> fjbertram/image/105586050
> 
> fjbertram/image/91264903
> 
> "Gitchi Manitou" is the Iroquois name for the Great Spirit. "Thatesatotat" means "Behave" in Mohawk.
> 
> The Clearwater family is entirely fictional- that is not the current head of the Seneca nation. I don't really like incorporating real people with real lives into my work if I'm going to take liberties with them.
> 
> Ich liebe dich, vögelchen. Immer, egal was du bist.- means "I love you, little bird. Always, no matter what you are" in German.


	10. Track Ten: "Thickfreakness" by the Black Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England uses words as a sword, sharp and cutting and meant to keep others at arms' length. America's are his shield and his mask; never mind that man behind the curtain, just keep your eyes on the fool and his tricks. But sometimes, even for them, there are no words.

**January 5, 2012**

**Ithaca, New York**

The windows of the Land Rover are fogged over, beaded with the condensing moisture of heavy breaths against snow-covered glass. The air is thick and tense, the only sound America's soft panting in England's ear. The young nation is spread beneath him on flattened back seats, gloriously nude and dazed and golden even in the moon-pale glow of the stormy night. And England's pulse hammers in his ears, drowning out all thoughts except _oh gods_ and _we're finally going to_ and _my beautiful America_. The fingers of his right hand are twined with America's, those on his left tracing the long ridges of his lover's stomach. America's back arches and his lips, reddened and swollen and wet, tremble and fall open in invitation.

England takes it. He crushes his mouth to America's, an assault of teeth and tongue that scrape full lips and map out the walls of that sweet cavern. It's so much ( _too much_ ) and America moans airily, the sound lost in the vacuum between them. England's hand rises to America's chin, pressing down and forcing him to yield all, and he tilts his head for a better angle to drive in and _taste_. Long fingers tangle in the short hair at the nape of his neck, as if America needs an anchor to reality amidst their suffocating, drowning kiss. He is still wearing his trousers, but he leans in against America anyway to press the lines of their bodies together- to fit every ridge and dip and curve with the other and meld their borders with sweat and heat. England pushes his thigh tight between America's own, reveling in the hard ( _so hard, all for him_ ) length branding a searing line to his hip. America cries out, a formless sound of desire, and rocks his hips up desperately, wanting friction or movement or something he can't quite define but needs anyway. England drinks down that sound, swallows it and feels it burn its way down his throat to pool in his groin. He feels strong calves press against his backside, America's legs wrapping around him as he tips his head back at England's urging. He follows the lines of America's throat with his teeth, a trail of purpling bruises left in his wake as he travels down to nip sharply at prominent collarbones.

There's only one thing missing- words. They've exchanged only a handful of sentences in the last two weeks; the two of them are so known for verbosity that the uncharacteristic silence is refreshing and intimate. America had spoken himself hoarse on Solstice morning, wrapping his arms around England and spilling out every secret he had kept since his infancy; a flood of magic and memory and heartache and destiny that England had locked away in his heart. Since then, they had spent their time communicating their strengthened rapport through lingering touches and quiet enjoyment of the other's company. In bed each night, England had folded his lover into his arms and held him close, sharing breath and warmth without the pressing needs of lust. For over two centuries, they had danced around and with each other and now, England mused, he and America were content to simply be together for a while. Prussia and Canada had taken the opposite route, christening every surface of the house with little regard for the whereabouts of the other two nations. More than once now, England and America had been "sexiled" (as his idiot lover called it); it was just as well, as Canada made a disturbing amount of noise when in flagrante.

This had been one of those days. America had bumbled down the wide staircase to join England at the breakfast table, a mug of coffee already waiting to infuse his lover with his morning fix, when a loud banging from the second floor made itself known. The familiar rhythm of the sound, coupled with ecstatic cries in German for _more, harder, faster_ sent Alfred flying for clothes and jackets and car keys before England could manage to put down his teacup. The two had driven down to the nearby city of Ithaca for the afternoon, eating lunch in a charming local brewpub and visiting the craft markets downtown. Just to be safe, the two had caught a movie ( _but everyone loves the Muppets, Arthur!_ ) before heading home, only to be caught in a blinding snowfall not five miles down the road. Cursing, America had pulled into the empty parking lot of the state park to let the worst of the storm pass, his visibility next to zero on the twisting highway. England could hear (though not see) the thunder of the waterfall behind the car through the pressing weight of the heavy snow blanketing the windshield. An apologetic look was shot his way, but Arthur wasn't really that bothered by the detour. There was something soothing about the white noise and the close atmosphere the weather created in the vehicle. He reached over and took America's hand in his own, leaning his head back against the leather seats and closing his eyes. Chuckling, America threaded their fingers together and switched on the radio, humming softly along with the quiet music. Every ten minutes or so, the younger nation would slide outside to brush off the windows and check the status of the snowfall. After the fourth time, Alfred's hair was so wet that even Nantucket drooped heavily in front of his eyes. The lad tried to blow it back upwards a few times to no avail, and England felt laughter bubbling up inside him at the annoyed frustration on that beloved face. Reaching over the shifter, England drew both his hands through that honey-blonde hair, combing it all back and away from his lover's vision. He drew off Texas next, fishing around in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the lenses free of melted snow. America gave him a lopsided grin in return, his face so very young without the framework of metal and plastic. Rather than return the eyewear, England folded the temples and carefully placed Texas on the slanted dashboard; he ran his now-free fingers down America's cheeks and jaw, followed the line of his nose with a single fingertip. It wrinkled in a comic fashion under his touch, though Alfred's eyes carried anything but humor. A deep yearning swam in those brilliant depths and England's mouth went dry. He grabbed the collar of America's jacket and dragged those cold lips to his own, kneaded his mouth and slid his tongue along America's bottom lip to taste the melted snow there.

America sighed and opened for him, without hesitation. Long minutes were lost in exploration of his sweet, wet mouth, of the taste of the skin beneath his jaw line and on his throat. Red marks bloomed on America's golden skin, but the boy paid no mind; he shrugged out of his jacket and nimbly undid the zips on England's as well. England's breath stuttered at that, his mouth sealing itself to America's once more in a devouring kiss that fogged the windows and made the younger whine deep in his throat. England's composure snapped at that broken, lovely, surrendering sound and with a few moments' struggling he had maneuvered their tangled forms into the backseat. A few quick _snaps_ and the seats fell back flush to the trunk and America tumbled down to lay splayed on the new surface. England followed him greedily, tugging America's sweater and t-shirt up over his head to tousle damp locks further. He guided America's hands ( _were they trembling?_ ) to his own sweater vest, urging his lover to participate. With some fumbling between sharp, biting kisses America managed to toss it to the front seats with his discarded clothing, nearly ripping open the buttons of his oxford in his haste.

With a slight tutting sound, England ran his hands down smooth hot skin, feeling the gathering sweat at the small of his lover's back with callused fingertips. His jeans are too loose even with a belt, his America, but that just made it easier to slide his hands past the waistband and lift the boy up into his lap by his rounded buttocks. England thrust his tongue back into the gasping mouth beneath his, squeezing that coveted flesh and harshly pulling down with his wrists to bare the American further. The jeans come off in a twisted knot of fabric as he laid America back down, boxers tangled somewhere in their depths. Unconcerned, England had flung the denim back over his shoulder and tilted his head to one side in contemplation. America flushed at the scrutiny but made no move to cover himself.

He has seen America nude before, of course he has. The boy had never had much in the way of modesty, and England _had_ raised him. Even in more modern times, he had shown no compunction about changing clothes in front of other nations after friendly sporting matches or swimming, even seeming happy to prove he was not in fact the fat-ass they all claimed he was. It wasn't even that England had never seen him naked in a sexual connotation- though those circumstances were better left forgotten here. For some reason, _this_ America- quiet, vulnerable, strangely shy- scalds England, the image branded inside his mind forever.

He scarcely remembers falling on top of his lover, pressing skin on skin and letting his mouth travel downwards to mark every inch he can reach. His tongue traces a shimmering trail over the swell of a pectoral, circling around a dusky nipple that peaks under his ministrations. The sharp intake of breath over his head inflames him, and he suckles harshly just to hear it again. England switches back and forth between those rosy buds, alternating his lips and his fingers, plucking and twisting. America writhes; his head shaking back and forth in what seems like denial were it not for the punctuated rolling of his hips. England molds his hands to those jutting hipbones, pressing them down, down into the seat to hold America taut and still as his tongue drags ever lower; the appendage left feeling cool when it relinquished the scalding heat of his lover's skin. The boy's gasps have turned harsher now as England nuzzles at the root of his desire, drawing his nose up the shaft to pillow his lips gently at the tip. America's back bows and his muscles snap tense, waiting. Exhaling a warm breath, England swallows him down, ignoring the wordless cry above. _This, this, this_ , he thinks. _You, mine at last_. The greedy sense of propriety that made him the terror of the world as first pirate then imperialist now put to use acquiring a different sort of prize- though the most valuable for which he'd ever striven. And he knows that he needs to get on with it already, that he wants this too much and has for too long to drag this out even with his experience, but he just cannot make himself stop lavishing the flesh in his mouth. _Just one more taste,_ he thinks fuzzily. _Just one more, then another and another and another_ until America is tugging in his hair, pulling England's mouth back up to his own. Something small and smooth is pressed into England's hand, a blue bottle that makes America both blush and shrug at the same time when England reads the label. He laughs, the sound vibrating into his younger lover's mouth and passed back to him in America's own sheepish mirth. They tip open the bottle together, thick liquid coating both of their fingers. America grins cheekily and makes good use of his by wrapping those digits around England and stroking over and over, with a twist at the top that sears his vision to grey and nearly blinds him. Choking, he slips his own fingers behind America's tight-drawn balls, wrist brushing against his straining cock, and up and _in_. America moans quietly, a deep sound nearly lost to the waterfall outside, and plants his heels to cant his hips up and further onto England's hand. Almost terrifying in its beauty, this naked and open pleasure of America's; he is too honest even in this, and the part of England that walls himself off on his solitary isle balks. A moment of weakness, but only a moment; the sheer joy at finally _having America_ is too great for his doubts and the bleak chill of his guarded heart. It is as England has always known- America is the sun, and the sun burns with a fire that incinerates anything else in its path.

Their lips join again as England spreads his fingers and the lubricant, crooking one to search for America's prostate. He knows he has found it when America's whole body shudders hard, the boy's ankles locking around England's hips to press his feet into his buttocks and push. Then America speaks a single word, the only word exchanged between them in hours, and the only one necessary.

"Now."

_Now,_ England muses as he slides America's hand away from his cock to link their fingers over his shoulder. _He can say so much with so little when he tries_. England's other arm hooks under America's right leg, pressing upwards as he rises so the knee is level with America's broad chest. And then he is _there_ , and America is trembling and those blue, blue eyes nervous but trusting. _He wants to know why I'm hesitating._ England doesn't know himself, only knows that he can't allow himself to believe that this is finally happening until he presses forwards and America relaxes around him and he's falling _in, in, in_ and breathing _out, out, out_ and his mind is so scattered that he doesn't know if he'll ever pick up the pieces from where they drowned in an ocean of sky. America's head is tilted back now, the length of his throat exposed, white of skin and red of bites and blue of bruises- his colors, _their_ colors, and England has made him this way. The boy is rocking with him, pressing backwards until England's hips meet his flesh and he is buried to the hilt in his beautiful, temperamental, beloved idiot. And this time, this time those big hands are free to cling to him, draw him closer, and embrace him rather than shying away in terror. For only the second time, America has loosed his restraints and England can sense the deep pool of power swirling under the surface of his skin- the power of a continent, power that, had he known existed, he would have fought to the death to keep by his side. Power shared now with him, flowing through America's body to his own in a riptide strong enough to pull his heart asunder. It wasn't even until America began to chant a soft litany of Mohawk that he realized he was thrusting, harder and faster every time, America's flesh pulsing in that soft auric glow with each one. England tries to steady himself, to make it last, but America is writhing and urging beneath him and really, when has he ever been able to truly deny the boy anything? America is dancing with him now, meeting each of England's thrusts with a jarring pace all his own- greedy and innocent and demanding and shy and everything _America_ all at once. He reaches his hand back down to America's length, to twine their joined fingers over that heated flesh and stroke together, and America comes undone. A sob that may have been England's name was born and died on those gasping lips, and England drank it down. America was hard as granite in his arms, frozen into a tense moment of bliss that couldn't help but drag England along for the ride. He takes in everything America offers- the lone tear trailing down his cheek, the scalding breath he exhales as he comes down, the salt of his sweat and the spend on his chest- and returns it in kind, pushing as deep as he can manage and coming hard to claim him.

It is long minutes before England returns to himself, the white haze fading from his vision. America's hand is running softly through his hair, sifting the strands in the blue light of the snow-covered truck and grinning foolishly. Their chests are sticking together, and beginning to itch, but England can't quite bring himself to care or even move. He nuzzles his face instead into the crook of America's neck, breathing in the long-missed scent of apple blossoms and mountain air. There will be many things to discuss later, England knows. How they will work out the distance between them, how they will manage with less than a dozen meetings per year and half of those spent in conferences. What their relationship means for the politics of their nations. What America and Canada feel is coming on the horizon- and how England and Prussia play into that. But for now, England is content to lay in the blanketing dark with his lover and simply _be_ for as long as they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these songs occasionally require explanation, like this obscure gem. I only know about it because my little brother's band has the same blues-funk vibe and he played it for me. This song IS sex. It's gritty and dirty and smooth and soulful. While it's not punk, the phenomenal guitar reminds me of Iggy and what few lyrics exist are perfect for these two. I always thought their first encounter wouldn't be something sweet and romantic, but rather simple and powerful but maybe a bit silly and awkward too. And btw- the "blue bottle" with the amusing label is a product that I probably shouldn't mention here due to minors, but is a very hilariously named lubricant.


End file.
